a 
Christmas    farlg 


Christmas 


BOOTH  TARKINGTON 

ILLUSTRATED    BY 
RUTH    SYPHERD    CLEMENTS 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
M  -  C  -  M  -  I  -  X 


Copyright,  1909,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Published  October,  1909. 


TO 


JAMES     WHITCOMB     RILEY 


Beasle^'s 
Christmas 


THE  maple-bordered  street  was  as  still  as 
a  country  Sunday;  so  quiet  that  there 
seemed  an  echo  to  my  footsteps.  It  was  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning;  clear  October  moon 
light  misted  through  the  thinning  foliage  to  the 
shadowy  sidewalk  and  lay  like  a  transparent 
silver  fog  upon  the  house  of  my  admiration,  as 
I  strode  along,  returning  from  my  first  night's 
work  on  the  "  Wainwright  Morning  Despatch." 


I  had  already  marked  that  house  as  the  finest 
(to  my  taste)  in  Wainwright,  though  hitherto, 
on  my  excursions  to  this  metropolis,  the  state 
capital,  I  was  not  without  a  certain  native  jeal 
ousy  that  Spencerville,  the  county-seat  where  I 
lived,  had  nothing  so  good.  Now,  however,  I  ap 
proached  its  purlieus  with  a  pleasure  in  it  quite 
unalloyed,  for  I  was  at  last  myself  a  resident 
(albeit  of  only  one  day's  standing)  of  Wainwright, 
and  the  house — though  I  had  not  even  an  idea 
who  lived  there — part  of  my  possessions  as  a  citi 
zen.  Moreover,  I  might  enjoy  the  warmer  pride 
of  a  next-door-neighbor,  for  Mrs.  Apperthwaite's, 
where  I  had  taken  a  room,  was  just  beyond. 

This  was  the  quietest  part  of  Wainwright; 
business  stopped  short  of  it,  and  the  "fashion 
able  residence  section"  had  overleaped  this 
"forgotten  backwater,"  leaving  it  undisturbed 
and  unchanging,  with  that  look  about  it  which 
is  the  quality  of  few  urban  quarters,  and  event 
ually  of  none,  as  a  town  grows  to  be  a  city — the 
look  of  still  being  a  neighborhood.  This  friend 
liness  of  appearance  was  largely  the  emanation 
of  the  homely  and  beautiful  house  which  so 
greatly  pleased  my  fancy. 


It  might  be  difficult  to  say  why  I  thought  it 
the  "finest"  house  in  Wainwright,  for  a  simpler 
structure  would  be  hard  to  imagine;  it  was 
merely  a  big,  old-fashioned  brick  house,  painted 
brown  and  very  plain,  set  well  away  from  the 
street  among  some  splendid  forest  trees,  with  a 
fair  spread  of  flat  lawn.  But  it  gave  back  a 
great  deal  for  your  glance,  just  as  some  people 
do.  It  was  a  large  house,  as  I  say,  yet  it  looked 
not  like  a  mansion  but  like  a  home;  and  made 
you  wish  that  you  lived  in  it.  Or,  driving  by, 
of  an  evening,  you  would  have  liked  to  hitch 
your  horse  and  go  in;  it  spoke  so  surely  of 
hearty,  old-fashioned  people  living  there,  who 
would  welcome  you  merrily. 

It  looked  like  a  house  where  there  were  a 
grandfather  and  a  grandmother;  where  holi 
days  were  warmly  kept;  where  there  were  bois 
terous  family  reunions  to  which  uncles  and 
aunts,  who  had  been  born  there,  would  return 
from  no  matter  what  distances;  a  house  where 
big  turkeys  would  be  on  the  table  often;  where 
one  called  "the  hired  man"  (and  named  either 
Abner  or  Ole)  would  crack  walnuts  upon  a  flat- 
iron  clutched  between  his  knees  on  the  back 

3 


porch;  it  looked  like  a  house  where  they  played 
charades;  where  there  would  be  long  streamers 
of  evergreen  and  dozens  of  wreaths  of  holly  at 
Christmas-time;  where  there  were  tearful,  hap 
py  weddings  and  great  throwings  of  rice  after 
little  brides,  from  the  broad  front  steps:  in  a 
word,  it  was  the  sort  of  a  house  to  make  the 
hearts  of  spinsters  and  bachelors  very  lonely 
and  wistful — and  that  is  about  as  near  as  I  can 
come  to  my  reason  for  thinking  it  the  finest 
house  in  Wainwright. 

The  moon  hung  kindly  above  its  level  roof 
in  the  silence  of  that  October  morning,  as  I 
checked  my  gait  to  loiter  along  the  picket  fence; 
but  suddenly  the  house  showed  a  light  of  its  own. 
The  spurt  of  a  match  took  my  eye  to  one  of  the 
upper  windows,  then  a  steadier  glow  of  orange 
told  me  that  a  lamp  was  lighted.  The  window 
was  opened,  and  a  man  looked  out  and  whistled 
loudly. 

I  stopped,  thinking  that  he  meant  to  attract 
my  attention;  that  something  might  be  wrong; 
that  perhaps  some  one  was  needed  to  go  for  a 
doctor.  My  mistake  was  immediately  evident, 
however;  I  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees 

4 


bordering  the 
sidewalk,  and 
the  man  at 
the  window 
had  not  seen 
me. 

"Boy!  Boy!" 
_  he  called, 
sof t ly . 
"Where  are  you, 
Simpledoria  ?" 

He  leaned  from  the  window,  looking 
downward.  "Why,  there  you  are!"  he  ex 
claimed,  and  turned  to  address  some  invisible 
person  within  the  room.  "He's  right  there, 
underneath  the  window.  I'll  bring  him  up." 
He  leaned  out  again.  "Wait  there,  Sim 
pledoria!"  he  called.  "I'll  be  down  in  a 
jiffy  and  let  you  in." 

Puzzled,  I  stared  at  the  vacant  lawn  before 
me.  The  clear  moonlight  revealed  it  brightly, 
and  it  was  empty  of  any  living  presence;  there 
were  no  bushes  nor  shrubberies — nor  even  shad 
ows — that  could  have  been  mistaken  for  a  boy, 
if  "  Simpledoria  "  was  a  boy.  There  was  no  dog 

5 


in  sight;  there  was  no  cat;  there  was  nothing  be 
neath  the  window  except  thick,  close-cropped 
grass. 

A  light  shone  in  the  hallway  behind  the  broad 
front  doors;  one  of  these  was  opened,  and  reveal 
ed  in  silhouette  the  tall,  thin  figure  of  a  man 
in  a  long,  old-fashioned  dressing-gown. 

"Simpledoria,"  he  said,  addressing  the  night 
air  with  considerable  severity,  "I  don't  know 
what  to  make  of  you.  You  might  have  caught 
your  death  of  cold,  roving  out  at  such  an  hour. 
But  there,"  he  continued,  more  indulgently; 
"wipe  your  feet  on  the  mat  and  come  in.  You're 
safe  now!" 

He  closed  the  door,  and  I  heard  him  call  to 
some  one  up-stairs,  as  he  rearranged  the  fast 
enings: 

"  Simpledoria  is  all  right — only  a  little  chilled. 
I'll  bring  him  up  to  your  fire." 

I  went  on  my  way  in  a  condition  of  astonish 
ment  that  engendered,  almost,  a  doubt  of  my 
eyes;  for  if  my  sight  was  unimpaired  and  myself 
not  subject  to  optical  or  mental  delusion,  neither 
boy  nor  dog  nor  bird  nor  cat,  nor  any  other 
object  of  this  visible  world,  had  entered  that 
6 


Opened  door.  Was  my  " finest"  house,  then, 
a  place  of  call  for  wandering  ghosts,  who  came 
home  to  roost  at  four  in  the  morning  ? 

It  was  only  a  step  to  Mrs.  Apperthwaite's; 
I  let  myself  in  with  the  key  that  good  lady  had 
given  me,  stole  up  to  my  room,  went  to  my 
window,  and  stared  across  the  yard  at  the  house 
next  door.  The  front  window  in  the  second 
story,  I  decided,  necessarily  belonged  to  that 
room  in  which  the  lamp  had  been  lighted;  but 
all  was  dark  there  now.  I  went  to  bed,  and 
dreamed  that  I  was  out  at  sea  in  a  fog,  having 
embarked  on  a  transparent  vessel  whose  pre 
posterous  name,  inscribed  upon  glass  life-belts, 
depending  here  and  there  from  an  invisible 
rail,  was  Sirnpledorla. 


II 


MRS.  APPERTH WAITE'S  was  a  commo 
dious  old  house,  the  greater  part  of  it  of 
about  the  same  age,  I  judged,  as  its  neighbor;  but 
the  late  Mr.  Apperthwaite  had  caught  the 
Mansard  fever  of  the  late  'Seventies,  and  the 
building-disease,  once  fastened  upon  him,  had 
never  known  a  convalescence,  but,  rather,  a 
series  of  relapses,  the  tokens  of  which,  in  the 
nature  of  a  cupola  and  a  couple  of  frame  tur 
rets,  were  terrifyingly  apparent.  These  ro 
mantic  misplacements  seemed  to  me  not  in 
harmonious  with  the  library,  a  cheerful  and 
pleasantly  shabby  apartment  down-stairs,  where 
I  found  (over  a  substratum  of  history,  encyclo 
paedia,  and  family  Bible)  some  worn  old  volumes 
of  Godeys  Lady  s  Book,  an  early  edition  of 
Cooper's  works;  Scott,  Bulwer,  Macaulay,  By 
ron,  and  Tennyson,  complete;  some  odd  volumes 

8 


of  Victor  Hugo,  of  the  elder  Dumas,  of  Flaubert, 
of  Gautier,  and  of  Balzac;  Clarissa,  Lalla 
Rookh,  The  Alhambra,  Beulah,  Uarda,  Lucile, 
Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  Ben-Hur,  Trilby,  She, 
Little  Lord  Fauntleroy;  and  of  a  later  decade, 
there  were  novels  about  those  delicately  tangled 
emotions  experienced  by  the  supreme  few;  and 
stories  of  adventurous  royalty;  tales  of  "clean 
limbed  young  American  manhood;"  and  some 
thin  volumes  of  rather  precious  verse. 

'Twas  amid  these  romantic  scenes  that  I 
awaited  the  sound  of  the  lunch-bell  (which  for 
me  was  the  announcement  of  breakfast),  when 
I  arose  from  my  first  night's  slumbers  under 
Mrs.  Apperthwaite's  roof;  and  I  wondered  if 
the  books  were  a  fair  mirror  of  Miss  Apper 
thwaite's  mind  (I  had  been  told  that  Mrs. 
Apperthwaite  had  a  daughter).  Mrs.  Apper- 
thwaite  herself,  in  her  youth,  might  have  sat  to 
an  illustrator  of  Scott  or  Bulwer.  Even  now 
you  could  see  she  had  come  as  near  being 
romantically  beautiful  as  was  consistently  proper 
for  such  a  timid,  gentle  little  gentlewoman  as 
she  was.  Reduced,  by  her  husband's  insol 
vency  (coincident  with  his  demise)  to  "keep- 

9 


ing  boarders,"  she  did  it  gracefully,  as  if  the 
urgency  thereto  were  only  a  spirit  of  quiet  hos 
pitality.  It  should  be  added  in  haste  that  she 
set  an  excellent  table. 

Moreover,  the  guests  who  gathered  at  her 
board  were  of  a  very  attractive  description,  as 
I  decided  the  instant  my  eye  fell  upon  the  lady 
who  sat  opposite  me  at  lunch.  I  knew  at  once 
that  she  was  Miss  Apperthwaite,  she  "went 
so,"  as  they  say,  with  her  mother;  nothing  could 
have  been  more  suitable.  Mrs.  Apperthwaite 
was  the  kind  of  woman  whom  you  would  ex 
pect  to  have  a  beautiful  daughter,  and  Miss 
Apperthwaite  more  than  fulfilled  her  mother's 
promise. 

I  guessed  her  to  be  more  than  Juliet  Capulet's 
age,  indeed,  yet  still  between  that  and  the  per 
fect  age  of  woman.  She  was  of  a  larger,  fuller, 
more  striking  type  than  Mrs.  Apperthwaite,  a 
bolder  type,  one  might  put  it — though  she 
might  have  been  a  great  deal  bolder  than  Mrs. 
Apperthwaite  without  being  bold.  Certainly 
she  was  handsome  enough  to  make  it  difficult 
for  a  young  fellow  to  keep  from  staring  at  her. 
She  had  an  abundance  of  very  soft,  dark  hair, 

10 


worn  almost  severely,  as  if  its  profusion  neces 
sitated  repression;  and  I  am  compelled  to  ad 
mit  that  her  fine  eyes  expressed  a  distant  con 
templation — obviously  of  habit  not  of  mood— 
so  pronounced  that  one  of  her  enemies  (if  she 
had  any)  might  have  described  them  as 
"  dreamy." 

Only  one  other  of  my  own  sex  was  present 
at  the  lunch-table,  a  Mr.  Dowden,  an  elderly 
lawyer  and  politician  of  whom  I  had  heard,  and 
to  whom  Mrs.  Apperthwaite,  coming  in  after 
the  rest  of  us  were  seated,  introduced  me.  She 
made  the  presentation  general;  and  I  had  the 
experience  of  receiving  a  nod  and  a  slow  glance, 
in  which  there  was  a  sort  of  dusky,  estimating 
brilliance,  from  the  beautiful  lady  opposite  me. 

It  might  have  been  better  mannered  for  me 
to  address  myself  to  Mr.  Dowden,  or  one  of  the 
very  nice  elderly  women,  who  were  my  fellow- 
guests,  than  to  open  a  conversation  with  Miss 
Apperthwaite;  but  I  did  not  stop  to  think  of 
that. 

"You  have  a  splendid  old  house  next  door  to 
you  here,  Miss  Apperthwaite,"  I  said.  "It's  a 
privilege  to  find  it  in  view  from  my  window." 


II 


There  was  a  faint  stir  as  of  some  consterna 
tion  in  the  little  company.  The  elderly  ladies 
stopped  talking  abruptly  and  exchanged  glances, 
though  this  was  not  of  my  observation  at  the 
moment,  I  think,  but  recurred  to  my  conscious 
ness  later,  when  I  had  perceived  my  blunder. 

"May  I  ask  who  lives  there?"  I  pursued. 

Miss  Apperthwaite  allowed  her  noticeable 
lashes  to  cover  her  eyes  for  an  instant,  then 
looked  up  again. 

"A  Mr.  Beasley,"  she  said. 

"Not  the  Honorable  David  Beasley!"  I  ex 
claimed. 

"Yes,"  she  returned,  with  a  certain  gravity 
which  I  afterward  wished  had  checked  me. 
"Do  you  know  him?" 

"Not  in  person,"  I  explained.  "You  see, 
I've  written  a  good  deal  about  him.  I  was  with 
the  "Spencerville  Journal"  until  a  few  days  ago, 
and  even  in  the  country  we  know  who's  who  in 
politics  over  the  state.  Beasley's  the  man  that 
went  to  Congress  and  never  made  a  speech — 
never  made  even  a  motion  to  adjourn — but  got 
everything  his  district  wanted.  There's  talk  of 
him  now  for  Governor." 

12 


"  Indeed  ?" 

"And  so  it's  the  Honorable  David  Beasley 
who  lives  in  that  splendid  place.  How  curious 
that  is!" 

"Why?"  asked  Miss  Apperthwaite. 

"It  seems  too  big  for  one  man,"  I  answered; 
"and  I've  always  had  the  impression  Mr.  Beas 
ley  was  a  bachelor." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  rather  slowly,  "he  is." 

"But  of  course  he  doesn't  live  there  all 
alone,"  I  supposed,  aloud,  "probably  he  has — " 

"No.  There's  no  one  else — except  a  couple 
of  colored  servants." 

"  What  a  crime !"  I  exclaimed.  "  If  there  ever 
was  a  house  meant  for  a  large  family,  that  one 
is.  Can't  you  almost  hear  it  crying  out  for  heaps 
and  heaps  of  romping  children  ?  I  should 
think—" 

I  was  interrupted  by  a  loud  cough  from  Mr. 
Dowden,  so  abrupt  and  artificial  that  his  in 
tention  to  check  the  flow  of  my  innocent 
prattle  was  embarrassingly  obvious  —  even 
to  me! 

"Can  you  tell  me,"  he  said,  leaning  forward 
and  following  up  the  interruption  as  hastily  as 

13 


possible,   "what  the  farmers  were  getting  for 
their  wheat  when  you  left  Spencervilie  ?" 

"Ninety-four  cents,"  I  answered,  and  felt  my 
ears  growing  red  with  mortification.  Too  late,  I 
remembered  that  the  new-comer  in  a  community 
should  guard  his  tongue  among  the  natives  until 
he  has  unravelled  the  skein  of  their  relationships, 
alliances,  feuds,  and  private  wars — a  precept 
not  unlike  the  classic  injunction: 

"  Yes,   my  darling  daughter. 
Hang  your  clothes  on  a  hickory  limb, 
But  don't  go  near  the  water." 

However,  in  my  confusion  I  warmly  re 
gretted  my  failure  to  follow  it,  and  resolved 
not  to  blunder  again. 

Mr.  Dowden  thanked  me  for  the  information 
for  which  he  had  no  real  desire,  and,  the  elderly 
ladies  again  taking  up  (with  all  too  evident  re 
lief)  their  various  mild  debates,  he  inquired  if 
I  played  bridge.  "But  I  forget,"  he  added. 
"Of  course  you'll  be  at  the  '  Despatch'  office  in 
the  evenings,  and  can't  be  here."  After  which 
he  immediately  began  to  question  me  about 


my  work,  making  his  determination  to  give  me 
no  opportunity  again  to  mention  the  Honor 
able  David  Beasley  unnecessarily  conspicuous, 
as  I  thought. 

I  could  only  conclude  that  some  unpleasant 
ness  had  arisen  between  himself  and  Beasley, 
probably  of  political  origin,  since  they  were 
both  in  politics,  and  of  personal  (and  con 
sequently  bitter)  development;  and  that  Mr. 
Dowden  found  the  mention  of  Beasley  not  only 
unpleasant  to  himself  but  a  possible  embar 
rassment  to  the  ladies  (who,  I  supposed,  were 
aware  of  the  quarrel)  on  his  account. 

After  lunch,  not  having  to  report  at  the  office 
immediately,  I  took  unto  myself  the  solace  of  a 
cigar,  which  kept  me  company  during  a  stroll 
about  Mrs.  Apperth wake's  capacious  yard. 
In  the  rear  I  found  an  old-fashioned  rose- 
garden — the  bushes  long  since  bloomless  and 
now  brown  with  autumn  —  and  I  paced  its 
gravelled  paths  up  and  down,  at  the  same 
time  favoring  Mr.  Beasley' s  house  with  a  covert 
study  that  would  have  done  credit  to  a  porch- 
climber,  for  the  sting  of  my  blunder  at  the  table 
was  quiescent,  or  at  least  neutralized,  under 

1$ 


the  itch  of  a  curiosity  far  from  satisfied  con 
cerning  the  interesting  premises  next  door. 
The  gentleman  in  the  dressing-gown,  I  was 
sure,  could  have  been  no  other  than  the  Hon 
orable  David  Beasley  himself.  He  came  not  in 
eyeshot  now,  neither  he  nor  any  other;  there 
was  no  sign  of  life  about  the  place.  That  portion 
of  his  yard  which  lay  behind  the  house  was  not 
within  my  vision,  it  is  true,  his  property  being 
here  separated  from  Mrs.  Apperthwaite's  by  a 
board  fence  higher  than  a  tall  man  could  reach; 
but  there  was  no  sound  from  the  other  side  of 
this  partition,  save  that  caused  by  the  quiet 
movement  of  rusty  leaves  in  the  breeze. 

My  cigar  was  at  half-length  when  the  green 
lattice  door  of  Mrs.  Apperthwaite's  back  porch 
was  opened  and  Miss  Apperthwaite,  bearing 
a  saucer  of  milk,  issued  therefrom,  followed, 
hastily,  by  a  very  white,  fat  cat,  with  a  pink 
ribbon  round  its  neck,  a  vibrant  nose,  and  fixed, 
voracious  eyes  uplifted  to  the  saucer.  The  lady 
and  her  cat  offered  to  view  a  group  as  pretty 
as  a  popular  painting;  it  was  even  improved 
when,  stooping,  Miss  Apperthwaite  set  the 
saucer  upon  the  ground,  and,  continuing  in 

16 


that  posture,  stroked 
the  cat.  To  bend  so 
far  is  a  test  of  a 
woman's  grace,  I  have 
observed. 

She  turned  her  face 
toward  me  and  smiled. 
"I'm  almost  at  the 
age,  you  see." 

"What    age? 
asked,  stupid 
ly  enough. 

"  When  we 
take  to  cats," 
she  said,  ris 
ing.  "'Spin-  ^ 
sterhood '  we 
like  to  call  it.  'Single -blessedness!"1 

"That  is  your  kind  heart.  You  decline  to 
make  one  of  us  happy  to  the  despair  of  all  the 
rest." 

She  laughed  at  this,  though  with  no  very 
genuine  mirth,  I  marked,  and  let  my  1830 
attempt  at  gallantry  pass  without  other  re 
tort. 

17 


"You  seemed  interested  in  the  old  place 
yonder."  She  indicated  Mr.  Beasley's  house 
with  a  nod. 

"Oh,  I  understood  my  blunder,"  I  said, 
quickly.  "I  wish  I  had  known  the  subject 
was  embarrassing  or  unpleasant  to  Mr.  Dow- 
den." 

"What  made  you  think  that?" 

"Surely,"  I  said,  "you  saw  how  pointedly  he 
cut  me  off." 

"Yes,"  she  returned,  thoughtfully.  "He 
rather  did;  it's  true.  At  least,  I  see  how  you 
got  that  impression."  She  seemed  to  muse 
upon  this,  letting  her  eyes  fall;  then,  raising 
them,  allowed  her  far-away  gaze  to  rest  upon 
the  house  beyond  the  fence,  and  said,  "It  is  an 
interesting  old  place." 

"And  Mr.  Beasley  himself—"  I  began. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "he  isn't  interesting.  That's 
his  trouble!" 

"You  mean  his  trouble  not  to — ' 

She  interrupted  me,  speaking  with  sudden, 
surprising  energy,  "I  mean  he's  a  man  of  no 
imagination." 

"No  imagination!"  I  exclaimed. 
18 


"  None  in  the  world !  Not  one  ounce  of  im 
agination!  Not  one  grain !" 

"Then  who/'  I  cried — "or  what — is  Simple- 
doria  ?" 

"  Simple— what  ?"  she  said,  plainly  mystified. 

"Simpledoria." 

"Simpledoria?"  she  repeated,  and  laughed. 
"What  in  the  world  is  that?" 

"You  never  heard  of  it  before  ?" 

"Never  in  my  life." 

"You've  lived  next  door  to  Mr.  Beasley  a 
long  time,  haven't  you  ?" 

"All  my  life." 

"And  I  suppose  you  must  know  him  pretty 
well." 

"What  next?"  she  said,  smiling. 

"You  said  he  lived  there  all  alone,"  I  went 
on,  tentatively. 

"Except  for  an  old  colored  couple,  his  ser 


vants." 


"Can  you  tell  me—"  I  hesitated.  "Has  he 
ever  been  thought — well,  'queer'  ?" 

"  Never !"  she  answered,  emphatically.  " Nev 
er  anything  so  exciting!  Merely  deadly  and 
hopelessly  commonplace."  She  picked  up  the 

'9 


saucer,  now  exceedingly  empty,  and  set  it  upon 
a  shelf  by  the  lattice  door.  "What  was  it  about 
— what  was  that  name  ? — '  Simpledoria'  ?" 

"I  will  tell  you,"  I  said.  And  I  related  in 
detail  the  singular  performance  of  which  I  had 
been  a  witness  in  the  late  moonlight  before  that 
morning's  dawn.  As  I  talked,  we  half  uncon 
sciously  moved  across  the  lawn  together,  finally 
seating  ourselves  upon  a  bench  beyond  the  rose- 
beds  and  near  the  high  fence.  The  interest  my 
companion  exhibited  in  the  narration  might 
have  surprised  me  had  my  nocturnal  experience 
itself  been  less  surprising.  She  interrupted  me 
now  and  then  with  little,  half-checked  ejacula 
tions  of  acute  wonder,  but  sat  for  the  most  part 
with  her  elbow  on  her  knee  and  her  chin  in  her 
hand,  her  face  turned  eagerly  to  mine  and  her 
lips  parted  in  half-breathless  attention.  There 
was  nothing  "far  away"  about  her  eyes  now; 
they  were  widely  and  intently  alert. 

When  I  finished,  she  shook  her  head  slowly,  as 
if  quite  dumfounded,  and  altered  her  position, 
leaning  against  the  back  of  the  bench  and  gazing 
straight  before  her  without  speaking.  It  was 
plain  that  her  neighbor's  extraordinary  behavior 
20 


had  revealed  a  phase  of  his  character  novel 
enough  to  be  startling. 

"One  explanation  might  be  just  barely  pos 
sible,"  I  said.  "If  it  is,  it  is  the  most  remark 
able  case  of  somnambulism  on  record.  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  Mr.  Beasley's  walking  in 
his—" 

She  touched  me  lightly  but  peremptorily  on 
the  arm  in  warning,  and  I  stopped.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  board  fence  a  door  opened 
creakily,  and  there  sounded  a  loud  and  cheerful 
voice — that  of  the  gentleman  in  the  dressing- 
gown. 

"Here  we  come!"  it  said;  "me  and  big  Bill 
Hammersley.  I  want  to  show  Bill  I  can  jump 
anyways  three  times  as  far  as  he  can!  Come 
on,  Bill." 

"Is  that  Mr.  Beasley's  voice  ?"  I  asked,  under 
my  breath. 

Miss  Apperthwaite  nodded  in  affirmation. 

"Could  he  have  heard  me  ?" 

"No,"  she  whispered.  "He's  just  come  out 
of  the  house."  And  then  to  herself,  "Who  un 
der  heaven  is  Bill  Hammersley  ?  I  never  heard 

of  him  r 

21 


"Of  course,  Bill,"  said  the  voice  beyond  the 
fence,  "if  you're  afraid  I'll  beat  you  too  badly, 
you've  still  got  time  to  back  out.  I  did  under 
stand  you  to  kind  of  hint  that  you  were  consid 
erable  of  a  jumper,  but  if—  What  ?  What  'd 
you  say,  Bill  ?"  There  ensued  a  moment's  com 
plete  silence.  "Oh,  all  right,"  the  voice  then 
continued.  "You  say  you're  in  this  to  win,  do 
you  ?  Well,  so'm  I,  Bill  Hammersley;  so'm  I. 
Who'll  go  first  ?  Me  ?  All  right  —  from  the 
edge  of  the  walk  here.  Now  then !  One — two 
-three!  Ha!" 

A  sound  came  to  our  ears  of  some  one  land 
ing  heavily — and  at  full  length,  it  seemed — on 
the  turf,  followed  by  a  slight,  rusty  groan  in 
the  same  voice.  "Ugh!  Don't  you  laugh,  Bill 
Hammersley!  I  haven't  jumped  as  much  as  I 
ought  to,  these  last  twenty  years;  I  reckon  I've 
kind  of  lost  the  hang  of  it.  Aha !"  There  were 
indications  that  Mr.  Beasley  was  picking  him 
self  up,  and  brushing  his  trousers  with  his  hands. 
"Now,  it's  your  turn,  Bill.  What  say  ?"  Silence 
again,  followed  by,  "Yes,  I'll  make  Simple- 
doria  get  out  of  the  way.  Come  here,  Simple- 
doria.  Now,  Bill,  put  your  heels  together  on 
22 


the  edge  of  the  walk.  That's  right.  All  ready  ? 
Now  then!  One  for  the  money — two  for  the 
show — three  to  make  ready — and  four  for  to 
GO!"  Another  silence.  "By  jingo,  Bill  Ham- 
mersley,  you've  beat  me!  Ha,  ha!  That  was 
a  jump!  What  say?"  Silence  once  more. 
"You  say  you  can  do  even  better  than  that? 
Now,  Bill,  don't  brag.  Oh !  you  say  you've  often 
jumped  farther  ?  Oh !  you  say  that  was  up  in 
Scotland,  where  you  had  a  spring-board  ?  Oho ! 
All  right;  let's  see  how  far  you  can  jump  when 
you  really  try.  There!  Heels  on  the  walk 
again.  That's  right;  swing  your  arms.  One 


—  two — three!  There 
other  silence.  "Zingl 
be  e-tarnally  snitched 
if  you  didn't  do  it  that 
Hammersley!  I  see 
1  never  really  saw 
any  jumping  be 
fore  in  all 
my  born  ' 


you  go!"     An- 

Well,    sir,    I'll 

to    fl  i  n  d  e  r  s 


time,     Bill 


days.     It 


eleven  feet  if  it's  an  inch.     What  ?    You  say 
you-— " 

I  heard  no  more,  for  Miss  Apperthwaite,  her 
face  flushed  and  her  eyes  shining,  beckoned  me 
imperiously  to  follow  her,  and  departed  so  hur 
riedly  that  it  might  be  said  she  ran. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  I,  keeping  at  her  elbow, 
"  whether  it's  more  like  Alice  or  the  inter 
locutor's  conversation  at  a  minstrel  show." 

"Hush!"  she  warned  me,  though  we  were 
already  at  a  safe  distance,  and  did  not  speak 
again  until  we  had  reached  the  front  walk. 
There  she  paused,  and  I  noted  that  she  was 
trembling — and,  no  doubt  correctly,  judged  her 
emotion  to  be  that  of  consternation. 

"There  was  no  one  there!"  she  exclaimed. 
"He  was  all  by  himself!  It  was  just  the  same 
as  what  you  saw  last  night!" 

"Evidently." 

"Did  it  sound  to  you" — there  was  a  little 
awed  tremor  in  her  voice  that  I  found  very 
appealing — "did  it  sound  to  you  like  a  person 
who'd  lost  his  mind  ?" 

"I    don't  know/'  I  said.     "I  don't  know  at 
all  what  to  make  of  it." 
24 


"He  couldn't  have  been" — her  eyes  grew  very 
wide — "intoxicated !" 

"No.     I'm  sure  it  wasn't  that." 

"Then  /  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it, 
either.  All  that  wild  talk  about  "Bill  Ham- 
mersley5  and  'Simpledoria'  and  spring-boards 
in  Scotland  and— -" 

"And  an  eleven-foot  jump,"  I  suggested. 

"Why,  there's  no  more  a  'Bill  Hammersley/ " 
she  cried,  with  a  gesture  of  excited  emphasis, 
"than  there  is  a  'Simpledoria'!" 

"So  it  appears,"  I  agreed. 

"He's  lived  there  all  alone,"  she  said,  solemn 
ly,  "in  that  big  house,  so  long,  just  sitting  there 
evening  after  evening  all  by  himself,  never  go 
ing  out,  never  reading  anything,  not  even  think 
ing;  but  just  sitting  and  sitting  and  sitting 
and  sitting —  Well,"  she  broke  off,  suddenly, 
shook  the  frown  from  her  forehead,  and  made 
me  the  offer  of  a  dazzling  smile,  "there's  no 
use  bothering  one's  own  head  about  it." 

"I'm  glad  to  have  a  fellow- witness,"  I  said. 
"It's  so  eerie  I  might  have  concluded  there  was 
something  the  matter  with  me." 

"You're  going  to  your  work?"  she  asked,  as 

25 


I  turned  toward  the  gate.  "I'm  very  glad  I 
don't  have  to  go  to  mine." 

" Yours?"  I  inquired,  rather  blankly. 

"I  teach  algebra  and  plain  geometry  at  the 
High  School,"  said  this  surprising  young  wom 
an.  " Thank  Heaven,  it's  Saturday!  I'm  read 
ing  Les  Mis  trebles  for  the  seventh  time,  and  I'm 
going  to  have  a  real  orgy  over  Gervaise  and  the 
barricade  this  afternoon!" 


Ill 


1DO  not  know  why  it  should  have  astonished 
me  to  find    that    Miss  Apperthwaite  was  a 
teacher  of  mathematics  except  that  (to  my  in 
experienced  eye)  she  didn't  look  it.    She  looked 
more  like  Charlotte  Corday! 

I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  opposite  me 
at  lunch  the  next  day  (when  Mr.  Dowden  kept 
me  occupied  with  Spencerville  politics,  obviously 
from  fear  that  I  would  break  out  again),  but 
no  stroll  in  the  yard  with  her  rewarded  me 
afterward,  as  I  dimly  hoped,  for  she  disappear 
ed  before  I  left  the  table,  and  I  did  not  see  her 
again  for  a  fortnight.  On  week-days  she  did 
not  return  to  the  house  for  lunch,  my  only  meal 
at  Mrs.  Apperthwaite's  (I  dined  at  a  restaurant 
near  the  "Despatch"  office),  and  she  was  out  of 
town  for  a  little  visit,  her  mother  informed  us, 
over  the  following  Saturday  and  Sunday.  She 

27 


was  not  altogether  out  of  my  thoughts,  how 
ever — indeed,  she  almost  divided  them  with  the 
Honorable  David  Beasley. 

A  better  view  which  I  was  afforded  of  this 
gentleman  did  not  lessen  my  interest  in  him; 
increased  it  rather;  it  also  served  to  make  the 
extraordinary  didoes  of  which  he  had  been  the 
virtuoso  and  I  the  audience  more  than  ever 
profoundly  inexplicable.  My  glimpse  of  him  in 
the  lighted  doorway  had  given  me  the  vaguest 
impression  of  his  appearance,  but  one  after 
noon — a  few  days  after  my  interview  with  Miss 
Apperthwaite — I  was  starting  for  the  office  and 
^  met  him  full-face- 

,      on  as  he  was  turn- 
ft   ing  in  at  his  gate. 
I  took  as  care 
ful  invoice  of 


- 


him    as    I    could   without   conspicuously    glar 
ing. 

There  was  something  remarkably  "taking," 
as  we  say,  about  this  man — something  easy  and 
genial  and  quizzical  and  careless.  He  was  the 
kind  of  person  you  like  to  meet  on  the  street; 
whose  cheerful  passing  sends  you  on  feeling 
indefinably  a  little  gayer  than  you  did.  He 
was  tall,  thin — even  gaunt,  perhaps — and  his 
face  was  long,  rather  pale,  and  shrewd  and 
gentle;  something  in  its  oddity  not  unremind- 
ful  of  the  late  Sol  Smith  Russell.  His  hat  was 
tilted  back  a  little,  the  slightest  bit  to  one  side, 
and  the  sparse,  brownish  hair  above  his  high 
forehead  was  going  to  be  gray  before  long.  He 
looked  about  forty. 

The  truth  is,  I  had  expected  to  see  a  cousin 
german  to  Don  Quixote;  I  had  thought  to 
detect  signs  and  gleams  of  wildness,  however 
slight — something  a  little  "off."  One  glance  of 
that  kindly  and  humorous  eye  told  me  such 
expectation  had  been  nonsense.  Odd  he  might 
have  been  —  Gadzooks!  he  looked  it — but 
"queer"  ?  Never.  The  fact  that  Miss  Apper- 
thwaite  could  picture  such  a  man  as  this  "sit- 

29 


ting  and  sitting  and  sitting"  himself  into  any 
form  of  mania  or  madness  whatever  spoke 
loudly  of  her  own  imagination,  indeed!  The 
key  to  "Simpledoria"  was  to  be  sought  under 
some  other  mat. 

...  As  I  began  to  know  some  of  my  co- 
laborers  on  the  "Despatch,"  and  to  pick  up 
acquaintances,  here  and  there,  about  town,  I 
sometimes  made  Mr.  Beasley  the  subject  of 
inquiry.  Everybody  knew  him.  aOh  yes,  I 
know  Dave  Beasley!"  would  come  the  reply, 
nearly  always  with  a  chuckling  sort  of  laugh. 
I  gathered  that  he  had  a  name  for  "easy 
going"  which  amounted  to  eccentricity.  It  was 
said  that  what  the  ward-heelers  and  camp- 
followers  got  out  of  him  in  campaign  times 
made  the  political  managers  cry.  He  was  the 
first  and  readiest  prey  for  every  fraud  and 
swindler  that  came  to  Wainwright,  I  heard,  and 
yet,  in  spite  of  this  and  of  his  hatred  of  "speech- 
making"  ("He's  as  silent  as  Grant!"  said  one 
informant),  he  had  a  large  practice,  and  was 
one  of  the  most  successful  lawyers  in  the 
state. 

One  story  they  told  of  him  (or,  as  they  were 

3° 


more  apt  to  put  it,  uon"  him)  was  repeated 
so  often  that  I  saw  it  had  become  one  of  the 
town's  traditions.  One  bitter  evening  in  Febru 
ary,  they  related,  he  was  approached  upon  the 
street  by  a  ragged,  whining,  and  shivering  old 
reprobate,  notorious  for  the  various  ingenuities 
by  which  he  had  worn  out  the  patience  "of  the 
charity  organizations.  He  asked  Beasley  for  a 
dime.  Beasley  had  no  money  in  his  pockets, 
but  gave  the  man  his  overcoat,  went  home  with 
out  any  himself,  and  spent  six  weeks  in  bed  with 
a  bad  case  of  pneumonia  as  the  direct  result. 
His  beneficiary  sold  the  overcoat,  and  invested 
the  proceeds  in  a  five-day's  spree,  in  the  closing 
scenes  of  which  a  couple  of  brickbats  were 
featured  to  high,  spectacular  effect.  One  he 
sent  through  a  jeweller's  show-window  in  an 
attempt  to  intimidate  some  wholly  imaginary 
pursuers,  the  other  he  projected  at  a  perfect 
ly  actual  policeman  who  was  endeavoring  to 
soothe  him.  The  victim  of  Beasley's  chanty 
and  the  officer  were  then  borne  to  the  hospital 
in  company. 

It  was  due  in   part  to  recollections  of  this 
legend  and   others   of  a  similar  character  that 


people  laughed  when  they  said,  "Oh  yes,  I 
know  Dave  Beasley!" 

Altogether,  I  should  say,  Beasley  was  about 
the  most  popular  man  in  Wainwright.  I  could 
discover  nowhere  anything,  however,  to  shed 
the  faintest  light  upon  the  mystery  of  Bill  Ham- 
mersley  and  Simpledoria.  It  was  not  until  the 
Sunday  of  Miss  Apperthwaite's  absence  that  the 
revelation  came. 

That  afternoon  I  went  to  call  upon  the  widow 
of  a  second-cousin  of  mine;  she  lived  in  a 
cottage  not  far  from  Mrs.  Apperthwaite's, 
upon  the  same  street.  I  found  her  sitting  on 
a  pleasant  veranda,  with  boxes  of  flowering 
plants  along  the  railing,  though  Indian  summer 
was  now  close  upon  departure.  She  was  rock 
ing  meditatively,  and  held  a  finger  in  a  morocco 
volume,  apparently  of  verse,  though  I  suspect 
ed  she  had  been  better  entertained  in  the  ob 
servation  of  the  people  and  vehicles  decorously 
passing  along  the  sunlit  thoroughfare  within  her 
view. 

We  exchanged  inevitable  questions  and  news 
of  mutual  relatives;  I  had  told  her  how  I  liked 
my  work  and  what  I  thought  of  Wainwright, 
32 


and  she  was  congratulating  me  upon  having 
found  so  pleasant  a  place  to  live  as  Mrs.  Apper- 
thwaite's,  when  she  interrupted  herself  to  smile 
and  nod  a  cordial  greeting  to  two  gentlemen 
driving  by  in  a  phaeton.  They  waved  their 
hats  to  her  gayly,  then  leaned  back  comfortably 
against  the  cushions — and  if  ever  two  men  were 
obviously  and  incontestably  on  the  best  of  terms 
with  each  other,  these  two  were.  They  were 
David  Beasley  and  Mr.  Dowden. 

"I  do  wish,"  said  my  cousin,  resuming  her 
rocking — "  I  do  wish  dear  David  Beasley  would 
get  a  new  trap  of  some  kind;  that  old  phaeton 
of  his  is  a  disgrace!  I  suppose  you  haven't  met 
him  ?  Of  course,  living  at  Mrs.  Apperthwaite's, 
you  wouldn't  be  apt  to." 

"But  what  is  he  doing  with  Mr.  Dowden?" 
I  asked. 

She  lifted  her  eyebrows.  "Why — taking  him 
for  a  drive,  I  suppose." 

"No.  I  mean — how  do  they  happen  to  be 
together  ?" 

"Why  shouldn't  they  be?  They  re  old 
friends—" 

"They  are!"     And,  in  answer  to  her  look  of 

33 


surprise,  I  explained  that  I  had  begun  to  speak 
of  Beasley  at  Mrs.  Apperthwaite's,  and  de 
scribed  the  abruptness  with  which  Dowden  had 
changed  the  subject. 

"I  see,"  my  cousin  nodded,  comprehending- 
ly.  " That's  simple  enough.  George  Dowden 
didn't  want  you  to  talk  of  Beasley  there.  I 
suppose  it  may  have  been  a  little  embarrassing 
for  everybody — especially  if  Ann  Apperthwaite 
heard  you." 

"Ann  ?  That's  Miss  Apperthwaite  ?  Yes;  I 
was  speaking  directly  to  her.  Why  shouldn't 
she  have  heard  me  ?  She  talked  of  him  her 
self  a  little  later — and  at  some  length,  too." 

"She  did!"  My  cousin  stopped  rocking, 
and  fixed  me  with  her  glittering  eye.  "Well, 
of  all!" 

"Is  it  so  surprising?" 

The  lady  gave  her  boat  to  the  waves  again. 
"Ann  Apperthwaite  thinks  about  him  still!" 
she  said,  with  something  like  vindictiveness. 
"I've  always  suspected  it.  She  thought  you 
were  new  to  the  place  and  didn't  know  any 
thing  about  it  all,  or  anybody  to  mention  it  to. 
That's  it!" 

34 


''I'm  still  new  to  the  place,"  I  urged,  "and 
still  don't  know  anything  about  it  all." 

"They  used  to  be  engaged,"  was  her  succinct 
and  emphatic  answer. 

I  found  it  but  too  illuminating.  "Oh,  oh!" 
I  cried.  "I  was  an  innocent,  wasn't  I?" 

"I'm  glad  she  does  think  of  him,"  said  my 
cousin.  "It  serves  her  right.  I  only  hope  he 
won't  find  it  out,  because  he's  a  poor,  faithful 
creature;  he'd  jump  at  the  chance  to  take  her 
back — and  she  doesn't  deserve  him." 

"How  long  has  it  been,"  I  asked,  "since  they 
used  to  be  engaged  ?" 

"Oh,  a  good  while — five  or  six  years  ago,  I 
think — maybe  more;  time  skips  along.  Ann 
Apperthwaite's  no  chicken,  you  know."  (Such 
was  the  lady's  expression.)  "They  got  en 
gaged  just  after  she  came  home  from  college, 
and  of  all  the  idiotically  romantic  girls — " 

"But  she's  a  teacher,"  I  interrupted,  "of 
mathematics." 

"Yes."  She  nodded  wisely.  "I  always 
thought  that  explained  it:  the  romance  is  a  re 
action  from  the  algebra.  I  never  knew  a  per 
son  connected  with  mathematics  or  astronomy 

35 


or  statistics,  or  any  of  those  exact  things,  who 
didn't  have  a  crazy  streak  in  'em  j-om^where. 
They've  got  to  blow  off  steam  and  be  foolish  to 
make  up  for  putting  in  so  much  of  their  time 
at  hard  sense.  But  don't  you  think  that  I  dis 
like  Ann  Apperthwaite.  She's  always  been 
one  of  my  best  friends;  that's  why  I  feel  at 
liberty  to  abuse  her — and  I  always  will  abuse 
her  when  I  think  how  she  treated  poor  David 
Beasley." 

"How  did  she  treat  him?" 

"Threw  him  over  out  of  a  clear  sky  one 
night,  that's  all.  Just  sent  him  home  and 
broke  his  heart;  that  is,  it  would  have  been 
broken  if  he'd  had  any  kind  of  disposition 
except  the  one  the  Lord  blessed  him  with— 
just  all  optimism  and  cheerfulness  and  make- 
the-best-of-it-ness !  He's  never  cared  for  any 
body  else,  and  I  guess  he  never  will." 

"What  did  she  doit  for?" 

"Nothing!"  My  cousin  shot  the  indignant 
word  from  her  lips.  "Nothing  in  the  wide 
world!" 

"But  there  must  have  been — " 

"Listen  to  me,"  she  interrupted,  "and  tell 

36 


me  if  you  ever  heard  anything  queerer  in  your 
life.  They'd  heen  engaged — Heaven  knows  how 
long — over  two  years;  probably  nearer  three — 
and  always  she  kept  putting  it  off;  wouldn't 
begin  to  get  ready,  wouldn't  set  a  day  for  the 
wedding.  Then  Mr.  Apperthwaite  died,  and 
left  her  and  her  mother  stranded  high  and 
dry  with  nothing  to  live  on.  David  had  ev 
erything  in  the  world  to  give  her  —  and  still 
she  wouldn't!  And  then,  one  day,  she  came  up 
here  and  told  me  she'd  broken  it  off.  Said  she 
couldn't  stand  it  to  be  engaged  to  David  Beas- 
ley  another  minute!" 

"  But  why  ?" 

"Because" — my  cousin's  tone  was  shrill  with 
her  despair  of  expressing  the  satire  she  would 
have  put  into  it — "  because,  she  said  he  was  a 
man  of  no  imagination!" 

"She  still  says  so,"  I  remarked,  thoughtfully. 

"Then  it's  time  she  got  a  little  imagina 
tion  herself!"  snapped  my  companion.  "David 
Beasley's  the  quietest  man  God  has  made,  but 
everybody  knows  what  he  is!  There  are  some 
rare  people  in  this  world  that  aren't  all  talk; 
there  are  some  still  rarer  ones  that  scarcely 

37 


ever  talk  at  all — and  David  Beasley's  one  of 
them.  I  don't  know  whether  it's  because  he 
can't  talk,  or  if  he  can  and  hates  to;  I  only 
know  he  doesn't.  And  I'm  glad  of  it,  and 
thank  the  Lord  he's  put  a  few  like  that  into  this 
talky  world!  David  Beasley's  smile  is  better 
than  acres  of  other  people's  talk.  My  Provi 
dence!  Wouldn't  anybody,  just  to  look  at 
him,  know  that  he  does  better  than  talk  ?  He 
thinks!  The  trouble  with  Ann  Apperthwaite 
was  that  she  was  too  young  to  see  it.  She  was 
so  full  of  novels  and  poetry  and  dreaminess  and 
highfalutin  nonsense  she  couldn't  see  anything 
as  it  really  was.  She'd  study  her  mirror,  and 
see  such  a  heroine  of  romance  there  that  she 
just  couldn't  bear  to  have  a  fiance  who  hadn't 
any  chance  of  turning  out  to  be  the  crown- 
prince  of  Kenosha  in  disguise!  At  the  very 
least,  to  suit  her  he'd  have  had  to  wear  a  'well- 
trimmed  Vandyke'  and  coo  sonnets  in  the 
gloaming,  or  read  On  a  Balcony  to  her  by  a 
red  lamp. 

"Poor  David!  Outside  of  his  law-books,  I 
don't  believe  he's  ever  read  anything  but  Robin 
son  Crusoe  and  the  Bible  and  Mark  Twain. 

38 


Oh,  you  should  have  heard  her  talk  about  it! — 
'I  couldn't  bear  it  another  day,'  she  said,  'I 
couldn't  stand  it!  In  all  the  time  I've  known 
him  I  don't  believe  he's  ever  asked  me  a  single 
question — except  when  he  asked  if  I'd  marry 
him.  He  never  says  anything — never  speaks 
at  all!9  she  said.  'You  don't  know  a  blessing 
when  you  see  it,'  I  told  her.  'Blessing!'  she 
said.  'There's  nothing  in  the  man!  He  has 
no  depths!  He  hasn't  any  more  imagination 
than  the  chair  he  sits  and  sits  and  sits  in!  Half 
the  time  he  answers  what  I  say  to  him  by 
nodding  and  saying  'urn-hum/  with  that  same 
old  foolish,  contented  smile  of  his.  I'd  have 
gone  mad  if  it  had  lasted  any  longer!'  I  asked 
her  if  she  thought  married  life  consisted  very 
largely  of  conversations  between  husband  and 
wife;  and  she  answered  that  even  married  life 
ought  to  have  some  poetry  in  it.  'Some  ro 
mance/  she  said,  'some  soul!  And  he  just 
comes  and  sits,'  she  said,  'and  sits  and  sits 
and  sits  and  sits!  And  I  can't  bear  it  any 
longer,  and  I've  told  him  so." 

"Poor  Mr.  Beasley,"  I  said. 

"7    think,    'Poor  Ann   Apperthwaite!'"   re- 

6  39 


torted  my  cousin.  "I'd  like  to  know  if  there's 
anything  nicer  than  just  to  sit  and  sit  and  sit 
and  sit  with  as  lovely  a  man  as  that — a  man 
who  understands  things,  and  thinks  and  listens 
and  smiles — instead  of  everlastingly  talking!" 

"As  it  happens,"  I  remarked,  "I've  heard 
Mr.  Beasley  talk." 

"Why,  of  course  he  talks,"  she  returned, 
"when  there's  any  real  use  in  it.  And  he 
talks  to  children;  he's  that  kind  of  man." 

"I  meant  a  particular  instance,"  I  began; 
meaning  to  see  if  she  could  give  me  any  clew 
to  Bill  Hammersley  and  Simpledoria,  but  at 
that  moment  the  gate  clicked  under  the  hand  of 
another  caller.  My  cousin  rose  to  greet  him; 
and  presently  I  took  my  leave  without  having 
been  able  to  get  back  upon  the  subject  of 
Beasley. 

Thus,  once  more  baffled,  I  returned  to  Mrs. 
Apperthwaite's — and  within  the  hour  came  into 
full  possession  of  the  very  heart  of  that  dark 
and  subtle  mystery  which  overhung  the  house 
next  door  and  so  perplexed  my  soul. 


IV 

FINDING  that  I  had  still  some  leisure 
before  me,  I  got  a  book  from  my  room 
and  repaired  to  the  bench  in  the  garden.  But 
I  did  not  read;  I  had  but  opened  the  book 
when  my  attention  was  arrested  by  sounds 
from  the  other  side  of  the  high  fence — low  and 
tremulous  croonings  of  distinctly  African  deri 
vation  : 

"  Ah   met  mah  sistuh   in   a-mawnin', 
She  'uz  a-waggin'  up  de  hill  so  slow! 
'  Sistuh,  you  mus'  git   a  rastle   in   doo  time, 
B'fo  de  hevumly  do's  cloze— iz!'  ' 

It  was  the  voice  of  an  aged  negro;  and  the 
simultaneous  slight  creaking  of  a  small  hub  and 
axle  seemed  to  indicate  that  he  was  pushing 
or  pulling  a  child's  wagon  or  perambulator  up 
and  down  the  walk  from  the  kitchen  door  to 

41 


the  stable.  Whiles,  he  proffered  soothing  music: 
over  and  over  he  repeated  the  chant,  though 
with  variations;  encountering  in  turn  his  brother, 
his  daughter,  each  of  his  parents,  his  uncle,  his 
cousin,  and  his  second-cousin,  one  after  the 
other  ascending  the  same  slope  with  the  same 
perilous  leisure. 

"Lay  still,  honey."  He  interrupted  his  in 
junctions  to  the  second-cousin.  "Des  keep 
on  a-nappin'  an'  a-breavin'  de  f'esh  air.  Dass 
wha's  go'  mek  you  good  an'  well  agin." 

Then  there  spoke  the  strangest  voice  that 
ever  fell  upon  my  ear;  it  was  not  like  a  child's, 
neither  was  it  like  a  very  old  person's  voice; 
it  might  have  been  a  grasshopper's,  it  was  so 
thin  and  little,  and  made  of  such  tiny  wavers 
and  quavers  and  creak- 
ings. 

"I — want — "  said  this  elfin 
voice,  "I — want — Bill — Ham- 
mersley!" 

The  shabby  phaeton 
which  had    passed    my 
cousin's   house  was 
drawing   up  to  the 


curb  near  Beasley's  gate.  Evidently  the  old 
negro  saw  it. 

"Hi  dar!"  he  exclaimed.  "Look  at  dat! 
Ham'  Bill  a  comin'  yonnah  des  edzacly  on  de 
dot  an'  to  de  vey  spot  an'  instink  when  you 
'quiah  fo'  'im,  honey  ?  Dar  come  Mist'  Dave, 
right  on  de  minute,  an'  you  kin  bet  yo'  las 
hunnud  dollahs  he  got  dat  Bill  Hammersley 
wif  'im!  Come  along,  honey-chile!  Ah's  go' 
to  pull  you  'roun  in  de  side  yod  fo'  to  meet  'em." 

The  small  wagon  creaked  away,  the  chant 
resuming  as  it  went. 

Mr.  Dowden  jumped  out  of  the  phaeton  with 
a  wave  of  his  hand  to  the  driver,  Beasley  him 
self,  who  clucked  to  the  horse  and  drove  through 
his  open  carriage-gates  and  down  the  drive  on 
the  other  side  of  the  house,  where  he  was  lost 
to  my  view. 

Dowden,  entering  our  own  gate,  nodded  in  a 
friendly  fashion  to  me,  and  I  advanced  to  meet 
him. 

"Some  day  I  want  to  take  you  over  next 
door,"  he  said,  cordially,  as  I  came  up.  "You 
ought  to  know  Beasley,  especially  as  I  hear 
you're  doin^  some  political  reporting.  Dave 

43 


Beasley's  going  to  be  the  next  governor  of  this 
state,  you  know."  He  laughed,  offered  me  a 
cigar,  and  we  sat  down  together  on  the  front 
steps. 

"From  all  I  hear,"  I  rejoined,  "you  ought 
to  know  who'll  get  it."  (It  was  said  in  town 
that  Dowden  would  "come  pretty  near  having 
the  nomination  in  his  pocket. ") 

"I  expect  you  thought  I  shifted  the  subject 
pretty  briskly  the  other  day  ?"  He  glanced 
at  me  quizzically  from  under  the  brim  of  his 
black  felt  hat.  "  I  meant  to  tell  you  about  that, 
but  the  opportunity  didn't  occur.  You  see— 

"I  understand,"  I  interrupted.  "I've  heard 
the  story.  You  thought  it  might  be  embarrass 
ing  to  Miss  Apperthwaite." 

"I  expect  I  was  pretty  clumsy  about  it,"  said 
Dowden,  cheerfully.  "Well,  well—"  he  flicked 
his  cigar  with  a  smothered  ejaculation  that 
was  half  a  sigh  and  half  a  laugh;  "it's  a  mighty 
strange  case.  Here  they  keep  on  living  next 
door  to  each  other,  year  after  year,  each  going 
on  alone  when  they  might  just  as  well — "  He 
left  the  sentence  unfinished,  save  for  a  vocal 
click  of  compassion.  "They  bow  when  they 

44 


happen  to  meet,  but  they  haven't  exchanged  a 
word  since  the  night  she  sent  him  away,  long 
ago."  He  shook  his  head,  then  his  countenance 
cleared  and  he  chuckled.  "Well,  sir,  Dave's  got 
something  at  home  to  keep  him  busy  enough, 
these  days,  I  expect!" 

"Do  you  mind  telling  me  ?"  I  inquired.  "Is 
its  name  'Simpledoria'  ?" 

Mr.  Dowden  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed 
loudly.  "Lord,  no!  What  on  earth  made  you 
think  that  ?" 

I  told  him.  It  was  my  second  success  with 
this  narrative;  however,  there  was  a  difference: 
my  former  auditor  listened  with  flushed  and 
breathless  excitement,  whereas  the  present  one 
laughed  consumedly  throughout.  Especially 
he  laughed  with  a  great  laughter  at  the  picture 
of  Beasley's  coming  down  at  four  in  the  morn 
ing  to  open  the  door  for  nothing  on  sea  or  land 
or  in  the  waters  under  the  earth.  I  gave  ac 
count,  also,  of  the  miraculous  jumping  contest 
(though  I  did  not  mention  Miss  Apperthwaite's 
having  been  with  me),  and  of  the  elfin  voice  I 
had  just  now  overheard  demanding  "  Bill  Ham- 
mersley." 

45 


"So  I  expect  you  must  have  decided,"  he 
chuckled,  when  I  concluded,  "that  David 
Beasley  has  gone  just  plain,  plum  insane." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  Nobody  could  look  at  him 
and  not  know  better  than  that." 

''  You're  right  there!"  said  Dowden,  heartily. 
"And  now  I'll  tell  you  all  there  is  to  it.  You 
see,  Dave  grew  up  with  a  cousin  of  his  named 
Hamilton  Swift;  they  were  boys  together; 
went  to  the  same  school,  and  then  to  college. 
I  don't  believe  there  was  ever  a  high  word 
spoken  between  them.  Nobody  in  this  life  ever 
got  a  quarrel  out  of  Dave  Beasley,  and  Hamil 
ton  Swift  was  a  mighty  good  sort  of  a  fellow, 
too.  He  went  East  to  live,  after  they  got  out 
of  college,  yet  they  always  managed  to  get 
together  once  a  year,  generally  about  Christ 
mas-time;  you  couldn't  pass  them  on  the  street 
without  hearing  their  laughter  ringing  out  loud 
er  than  the  sleigh-bells,  maybe  over  some  old 
joke  between  them,  or  some  fool  thing  they 
did,  perhaps,  when  they  were  boys.  But  finally 
Hamilton  Swift's  business  took  him  over  to  the 
other  side  of  the  water  to  live;  and  he  married 
an  English  girl,  an  orphan  without  any  kin. 


That  was  about  seven  years  ago.  Well,  sir, 
this  last  summer  he  and  his  wife  were  taking  a 
trip  down  in  Switzerland,  and  they  were  both 
drowned  —  tipped  over  out  of  a  rowboat  in 
Lake  Lucerne — and  word  came  that  Hamilton 
Swift's  will  appointed  Dave  guardian  of  the  one 
child  they  had,  a  little  boy— Hamilton  Swift, 
Junior's  his  name.  He  was  sent  across  the 
ocean  in  charge  of  a  doctor,  and  Dave  went  on 
to  New  York  to  meet  him.  He  brought  him 
home  here  the  very  day  before  you  passed  the 
house  and  saw  poor  Dave  getting  up  at  four  in 
the  morning  to  let  that  ghost  in.  And  a  mighty 
funny  ghost  Simpledoria  is!" 

"I  begin  to  understand,"  I  said,  "and  to 
feel  pretty  silly,  too." 

"Not  at  all,"  he  rejoined,  heartily  "That 
little  chap's  freaks  would  mystify  anybody,  es 
pecially  with  Dave  humoring  'em  the  ridiculous 
way  he  does.  Hamilton  Swift,  Junior,  is  the 
curiousest  child  I  ever  saw — and  the  good  Lord 
knows  He  made  all  children  powerful  mysteri 
ous!  This  poor  little  cuss  has  a  complication  of 
infirmities  that  have  kept  him  on  his  back  most 
of  his  life,  never  knowing  other  children,  never 

47 


playing,  or  anything;  and  he's  got  ideas  and 
ways  that  I  never  saw  the  beat  of!  He  was 
born  sick,  as  I  understand  it — his  bones  and 
nerves  and  insides  are  all  wrong,  somehow — but 
it's  supposed  he  gets  a  little  better  from  year  to 
year.  He  wears  a  pretty  elaborate  set  of  braces, 
and  he's  subject  to  attacks,  too — I  don't  know 
the  name  for  'em — and  loses  what  little  voice  he 
has  sometimes,  all  but  a  whisper.  He  had  one, 
I  know,  the  day  after  Beasley  brought  him  home, 
and  that  was  probably  the  reason  you  thought 


Dave  was  carrying  on  all  to  himself  about  that 
jumping-match  out  in  the  back-yard.  The  boy 
must  have  been  lying  there  in  the  little  wagon 
they  have  for  him,  while  Dave  cut  up  shines 
with  '  Bill  Hammersley.'  Of  course,  most  chil 
dren  have  make-believe  friends  and  companions, 
especially  if  they  haven't  any  brothers  or  sisters, 
but  this  lonely  little  feller's  got  his  people  worked 
out  in  his  mind  and  materialized  beyond  any  I 
ever  heard  of.  Dave  got  well  acquainted  with 
'em  on  the  train  on  the  way  home,  and  they 
certainly  are  giving  him  a  lively  time.  Ho,  ho! 
Getting  him  up  at  four  in  the  morning — 

Mr.  Dowden's  mirth  overcame  him  for  a  mo 
ment;  when  he  had  mastered  it,  he  continued: 
"Simpledoria — now  where  do  you  suppose  he 
got  that  name  ? — well,  anyway,  Simpledoria  is 
supposed  to  be  Hamilton  Swift,  Junior's  St. 
Bernard  dog.  Beasley  had  to  bathe  him  the 
other  day,  he  told  me!  And  Bill  Hammersley 
is  supposed  to  be  a  boy  of  Hamilton  Swift, 
Junior's  own  age,  but  very  big  and  strong;  he 
has  rosy  cheeks,  and  he  can  do  more  in  athletics 
than  a  whole  college  track-team.  That's  the 
reason  he  outjumped  Dave  so  far,  you  see." 

49 


M[SS  APPERTHWAITE  was  at  home  the 
following  Saturday.  I  found  her  in  the 
library  with  Les  Miser  able  s  on  her  knee  when 
I  came  down  from  my  room  a  little  before  lunch- 
time;  and  she  looked  up  and  gave  me  a  smile 
that  made  me  feel  sorry  for  any  one  she  had 
ceased  to  smile  upon. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you,"  I  said,  with  a  little 
awkwardness  but  plenty  of  truth,  "I've  found 
out  that  I'm  an  awful  fool." 

"But  that's  something,"  she  returned,  en 
couragingly-  "at  least  the  beginning  of  wis 
dom." 

"I  mean  about  Mr.  Beasley — the  mystery  I 
was  absurd  enough  to  find  in  'Simpledoria.'  I 
want  to  tell  you— 

"Oh,  7  know,"  she  said;  and  although  she 
laughed  with  an  effect  of  carelessness,  that  look 

5° 


which  I  had  thought  "far  away"  returned  to 
her  eyes  as  she  spoke.  There  was  a  certain 
inscrutability  about  Miss  Apperthwaite  some 
times,  it  should  be  added,  as  if  she  did  not  like 
to  be  too  easily  read.  "I've  heard  all  about  it. 
Mr.  Beasley's  been  appointed  trustee  or  some 
thing  for  poor  Hamilton  Swift's  son,  a  pitiful 
little  invalid  boy  who  invents  all  sorts  of  char 
acters.  The  old  darky  from  over  there  told 
our  cook  about  Bill  Hammersley  and  Simple- 
doria.  So,  you  see,  I  understand." 

"I'm  glad  you  do,"  I  said. 

A  little  hardness  —  one  might  even  have 
thought  it  bitterness — became  apparent  in  her 
expression.  "And  I'm  glad  there's  somebody 
in  that  house,  at  last,  with  a  little  imagination!" 

"From  everything  I  have  heard,"  I  returned, 
summoning  sufficient  boldness,  "it  would  be 
difficult  to  say  which  has  more — Mr.  Beasley  or 
the  child." 

Her  glance  fell  from  mine  at  this,  but  not 
quickly  enough  to  conceal  a  sudden,  half- 
startled  look  of  trouble  (I  can  think  of  no  other 
way  to  express  it)  that  leaped  into  it;  and  she 
rose,  for  the  lunch-bell  was  ringing. 

51 


"I'm  just  finishing  the  death  of  Jean  Val- 
jean,  you  know,  in  Les  Miserable*  "  she  said, 
as  we  moved  to  the  door.  "I'm  always  afraid 
I'll  cry  over  that.  I  try  not  to,  because  it  makes 
my  eyes  red." 

And,  in  truth,  there  was  a  vague  rumor  of 
tears  about  her  eyes — not  as  if  she  had  shed 
them,  but  more  as  if  she  were  going  to — though 
I  had  not  noticed  it  when  I  came  in. 


.  .  .  That  afternoon,  when  I  reached  the 
"  Despatch"  office,  I  was  commissioned  to  obtain 
certain  political  information  from  the  Honor 
able  David  Beasley,  an  assignment  I  accepted 
with  eagerness,  notwithstanding  the  commiser 
ation  it  brought  me  from  one  or  two  of  my 
fellows  in  the  reporter's  room.  "You  won't 
get  anything  out  of  him!"  they  said.  And 
they  were  true 
prophets. 

I  found  him         |j 
looking    over  [i 


some 


docu 


ments      n 


his  office;  a  reflective,  unlighted  cigar  in  the 
corner  of  his  mouth;  his  chair  tilted  back  and 
his  feet  on  a  window-sill.  He  nodded,  upon  my 
statement  of  the  affair  that  brought  me,  and, 
without  shifting  his  position,  gave  me  a  look 
of  slow  but  wholly  friendly  scrutiny  over  his 
shoulder,  and  bade  me  sit  down.  I  began  at 
once  to  put  the  questions  I  was  told  to  ask  him — 
interrogations  (he  seemed  to  believe)  satisfac 
torily  answered  by  slowly  and  ruminatively 
stroking  the  left  side  of  his  chin  with  two  long 
fingers  of  his  right  hand,  the  while  he  smiled 
in  genial  contemplation  of  a  tarred  roof  be 
yond  the  window.  Now  and  then  he  would 
give  me  a  mild  and  drawling  word  or  two,  not 
brilliantly  illuminative,  it  may  be  remarked. 
"Well  —  about  that — "  he  began  once,  and 
came  immediately  to  a  full  stop. 

"Yes  ?"  I  said,  hopefully,  my  pencil  poised. 

"About  that — I  guess— 

"Yes,  Mr.  Beasley  ?"  I  encouraged  him,  for 
he  seemed  to  have  dried  up  permanently. 

"Well,  sir— I  guess—  Hadn't  you  better  see 
some  one  else  about  that  ?" 

This  with  the   air  of  a  man  who  would  be 

53 


but  too  fluent  and  copious  upon  any  subject  in 
the  world  except  the  one  particular  point. 

I  never  met  anybody  else  who  looked  so 
pleasantly  communicative  and  managed  to  say 
so  little.  In  fact,  he  didn't  say  anything  at  all; 
and  I  guessed  that  this  faculty  was  not  without 
its  value  in  his  political  career,  disastrous  as  it 
had  proved  to  his  private  happiness.  His  habit 
of  silence,  moreover,  was  not  cultivated:  you 
could  see  that  "the  secret  of  it"  was  just  that 
he  was  born  quiet. 

My  note-book  remained  noteless,  and  finally, 
at  some  odd  evasion  of  his,  accomplished  by  a 
monosyllable,  I  laughed  outright — and  he  did, 
too!  He  joined  cachinnations  with  me  heartily, 
and  with  a  twinkling  quizzicalness  that  some 
how  gave  me  the  idea  that  he  might  be  think 
ing  (rather  apologetically)  to  himself:  "Yes, 
sir,  that  old  Beasley  man  is  certainly  a  mighty 
funny  critter!" 

When  I  went  away,  a  few  moments  later,  and 
left  him  still  intermittently  chuckling,  the  im 
pression  remained  with  me  that  he  had  had  some 
such  deprecatory  and  surreptitious  thought. 

Two  or  three  days  after  that,  as  I  started 
54 


down-town  from  Mrs.  Apperthwaite's,  Beasley 
came  out  of  his  gate,  bound  in  the  same  direc 
tion.  He  gave  me  a  look  of  gay  recognition 
and  offered  his  hand,  saying,  "Well!  Up  in 
this  neighborhood!"  as  if  that  were  a  matter  of 
considerable  astonishment. 

I  mentioned  that  I  was  a  neighbor,  and  we 
walked  on  together.  I  don't  think  he  spoke 
again,  except  for  a  "Well,  sir!"  or  two  of  genial 
surprise  at  something  I  said,  and,  now  and 
then,  "You  don't  tell  me!"  which  he  had  a 
most  eloquent  way  of  exclaiming;  but  he  listened 
visibly  to  my  own  talk,  and  laughed  at  every 
thing  that  I  meant  for  funny. 

I  never  knew  anybody  who  gave  one  a  greater 
responsiveness;  he  seemed  to  be  with  you  every 
instant;  and  how  he  made  you  feel  it  was  the 
true  mystery  of  Beasley,  this  silent  man  who 
never  talked,  except  (as  my  cousin  said)  to 
children. 

It  happened  that  I  thus  met  him,  as  we  were 
both  starting  down-town,  and  walked  on  with 
him,  several  days  in  succession;  in  a  word,  it 
became  a  habit.  Then,  one  afternoon,  as  I 
turned  to  leave  him  at  the  "  Despatch  "  office,  he 

s  55 


asked  me  if  I  wouldn't  drop  in  at  his  house  the 
next  day  for  a  cigar  before  we  started.  I  did; 
and  he  asked  me  if  I  wouldn't  come  again  the 
day  after  that.  So  this  became  a  habit,  too. 

A  fortnight  elapsed  before  I  met  Hamilton 
Swift,  Junior;  for  he,  poor  little  father  of  dream- 
children,  could  be  no  spectator  of  track  events 
upon  the  lawn,  but  lay  in  his  bed  up-stairs. 
However,  he  grew  better  at  last,  and  my  pres 
entation  took  place. 

We  had  just  finished  our  cigars  in  Beasley's 
airy,  old-fashioned  "sitting-room,"  and  were 
rising  to  go,  when  there  came  the  faint  creak 
ing  of  small  wheels  from  the  hall.  Beasley 
turned  to  me  with  the  apologetic  and  mono 
syllabic  chuckle  that  was  distinctly  his  alone. 

"I've  got  a  little  chap  here — "  he  said;  then 
went  to  the  door.  "Bob!" 

The  old  darky  appeared  in  the  doorway  push 
ing  a  little  wagon  like  a  reclining- chair  on 
wheels,  and  in  it  sat  Hamilton  Swift,  Junior. 

My  first  impression  of  him  was  that  he  was 
all  eyes:  I  couldn't  look  at  anything  else  for  a 
time,  and  was  hardly  conscious  of  the  rest  of 
that  weazened,  peaked  little  face  and  the  under- 

56 


sized  wisp  of  a  body  with  its  pathetic  adjuncts 
of  metal  and  leather.  I  think  they  were  the 
brightest  eyes  I  ever  saw  —  as  keen  and  intelli 
gent  as  a  wicked  old  woman's,  withal  as  trust 
ful  and  cheery  as  the  eyes  of  a  setter  pup. 


Thus  the  Honorable  Mr.  Beasley,  waving  a 
handkerchief  thrice  around  his  head  and  thrice 
cheering. 

And  the  child,  in  that  cricket's  voice  of  his, 
replied  : 

"Br-r-ra-vo!" 

This  was  the  form  of  salutation  familiarly  in 
use  between  them.  Beasley  followed  it  by  in 
quiring,  "Who's  with  us  to-day?" 

'Tm  Mister  Swift,"  chirped  the  little  fellow. 
"Mis-ter  Swift,  if  you  please,  Cousin  David 
Beasley." 

Beasley  executed  a  formal  bow.  '  There 
is  a  gentleman  here  who'd  like  to  meet  you." 
And  he  presented  me  with  some  grave  phrases 
commendatory  of  my  general  character,  address 
ing  the  child  as  "Mister  Swift";  whereupon 
Mister  Swift  gave  me  a  ghostly  little  hand  and 
professed  himself  glad  to  meet  me. 

57 


"And  besides  me,"  he  added,  to  Beasley, 
"there's  Bill  Hammersley  and  Mr.  Corley 
Linbridge." 

A  faint  perplexity  manifested  itself  upon 
Beasley's  face  at  this,  a  shadow  which  cleared 
at  once  when  I  asked  if  I  might  not  be  per 
mitted  to  meet  these  personages,  remarking 
that  I  had  heard  from  Dowden  of  Bill  Ham 
mersley,  though  until  now  a  stranger  to  the 
fame  of  Mr.  Corley  Linbridge. 

Beasley  performed  the  ceremony  with  in 
tentional  elegance,  while  the  boy's  great  eyes 
swept  glowingly  from  his  cousin's  face  to  mine 
and  back  again.  I  bowed  and  shook  hands  with 
the  air,  once  to  my  left  and  once  to  my  right. 
"And  Simpledoria!"  cried  Mister  Swift. 
You'll  enjoy  Simpledoria." 

Above  all  things,"  I  said.     "Can 
he  shake  hands  ? 
Some  dogs  can." 
"Watch  him!" 
Mister  Swift  lifted 
a  commanding  fin 
ger.  "  Simpledoria, 
shake  hands!" 


I  knelt  beside  the  wagon  and  shook  an  imag 
inary  big  paw.  At  this  Mister  Swift  again 
shook  hands  with  me  and  allowed  me  to  per 
ceive,  in  his  luminous  regard,  a  solemn  com 
mendation  and  approval. 

In  this  wise  was  my  initiation  into  the  beau 
tiful  old  house  and  the  cordiality  of  its  inmates 
completed;  and  I  became  a  familiar  of  David 
Beasley  and  his  ward,  with  the  privilege  to  go 
and  come  as  I  pleased;  there  was  always  gay 
and  friendly  welcome.  I  always  came  for  the 
cigar  after  lunch,  sometimes  for  lunch  itself; 
sometimes  I  dined  there  instead  of  down-town; 
and  now  and  then  when  it  happened  that  an 
errand  or  assignment  took  me  that  way  in  the 
afternoon,  I  would  run  in  and  " visit"  awhile 
with  Hamilton  Swift,  Junior,  and  his  circle  of 
friends. 

There  were  days,  of  course,  when  his  attacks 
were  upon  him,  and  only  Beasley  and  the 
doctor  and  old  Bob  saw  him;  I  do  not 
know  what  the  boy's  mental  condition 
was  at  such  times;  but  when  he 
was  better,  and  could  be  wheeled 
about  the  house  and  again  re- 

59 


ceive  callers,  he  displayed  an  almost  dismaying 
activity  of  mind  —  it  was  active  enough,  cer 
tainly,  to  keep  far  ahead  of  my  own.  And  he 
was  masterful:  still,  Beasley  and  Dowden  and  I 
were  never  directly  chidden  for  insubordination, 
though  made  to  wince  painfully  by  the  look  of 
troubled  surprise  that  met  us  when  we  were  not 
quick  enough  to  catch  his  meaning. 

The  order  of  the  day  with  him  always  began 
with  the  "7/oo-ray"  and  "  Br-r-ra-vo "  of  greet 
ing;  after  which  we  were  to  inquire,  "Who's 
with  us  to-day  ?"  Whereupon  he  would  make 
known  the  character  in  which  he  elected  to  be 
received  for  the  occasion.  If  he  announced 
himself  as  "Mister  Swift,"  everything  was 
to  be  very  grown-up  and  decorous  indeed. 
Formalities  and  distances  were  observed;  and 
Mr.  Corley  Linbridge  (an  elderly  personage  of 
great  dignity  and  distinction  as  a  mountain- 
climber)  was  much  oftener  included  in  the 
conversation  than  Bill  Hammersley.  If,  how 
ever,  he  declared  himself  to  be  "Hamilton 
Swift,  Junior,"  which  was  his  happiest  mood, 
Bill  Hammersley  and  Simpledoria  were  in  the 
ascendant,  and  there  were  games  and  contests. 

60 


(Dowden,  Beasley,  and  I  all  slid  down  the 
banisters  on  one  of  the  Hamilton  Swift,  Junior, 
days,  at  which  really  picturesque  spectacle  the 
boy  almost  cried  with  laughter — and  old  Bob 
and  his  wife,  who  came  running  from  the 
kitchen,  did  cry.)  He  had  a  third  appellation 
for  himself — "Just  little  Hamilton";  but  this 
was  only  when  the  creaky  voice  could  hardly 
chirp  at  all  and  the  weazened  face  was  drawn 
to  one  side  with  suffering.  When  he  told  us 
he  was  "Just  little  Hamilton"  we  were  very 
quiet. 

Once,  for  ten  days,  his  Invisibles  all  went 
away  on  a  visit:  Hamilton  Swift,  Junior,  had 
become  interested  in  bears.  While  this  lasted, 
all  of  Beasley's  trousers  were,  as  Dowden  said, 
"a  sight."  For  that  matter, 
Dowden  himself  was  quite 
hoarse  in  court  from  growling 
so  much.  The  bears  were  dis 
missed  abruptly:  Bill  Ham- 
mersley  and  Mr.  Corley  Lin- 


bridge  and  Simpledoria  came 
trooping  back,  and  with  them 
they  brought  that  wonderful  fam 
ily,  the  Hunchbergs. 

Beasley  had    just    opened    the 
front  door,  returning  at  noon  from 
his  office,  when   Hamilton  Swift, 
Junior's  voice  came  piping  from  the  library,  where 
he  was  reclining  in  his  wagon  by  the  window. 

"Cousin  David  Beasley!  Cousin  David, 
come  a-running!"  he  cried.  "Come  a-running! 
The  Hunchbergs  are  here!" 

Of  course  Cousin  David  Beasley  came  a-run 
ning,  and  was  immediately  introduced  to  the 
whole  Hunchberg  family,  a  ceremony  which 
old  Bob,  who  was  with  the  boy,  had  previously 
undergone  with  courtly  grace. 
62 


"They  like  Bob,"  explained  Hamilton. 
"  Don't  you,  Mr.  Hunchberg  ?  Yes,  he  says 
they  do  extremely!"  (He  used  such  words  as 
"extremely"  often;  indeed,  as  Dowden  said, 
he  talked  "like  a  child  in  a  book,"  which  was 
due,  I  dare  say,  to  his  English  mother.)  "And 
I'm  sure,"  the  boy  went  on,  "that  all  the  family 
will  admire  Cousin  David.  Yes,  Mr.  Hunch- 
berg  says,  he  thinks  they  will." 

And  then  (as  Bob  told  me)  he  went  almost 
out  of  his  head  with  joy  when  Beasley  offered 
Mr.  Hunchberg  a  cigar  and  struck  a  match  for 
him  to  light  it. 

"But  whar,"  exclaimed  the  old  darky, 
"whar  in  de  name  o'  de  good  Gawd  do  de 
chile  git  dem  names?  Hit  lak  to  sheer  me!" 

That  was  a  subject  often  debated  between 
Dowden  and  me:  there  was  nothing  in  Wain- 
wright  that  could  have  suggested  them,  and  it 
did  not  seem  probable  he  could  have  remem 
bered  them  from  over  the  water.  In  my  opinion 
they  were  the  inventions  of  that  busy  and  lonely 
little  brain. 

I  met  the  Hunchberg  family,  myself,  the  day 
after  their  arrival,  and  Beasley,  by  that  time, 


had  become  so  well  acquainted  with  them  that 
he  could  remember  all  their  names,  and  helped 
in  the  introductions.  There  was  Mr.  Hunch- 
berg — evidently  the  child's  favorite,  for  he  was 
described  as  the  possessor  of  every  engaging 
virtue — and  there  was  that  lively  matron,  Mrs. 
Hunchberg;  there  were  the  Hunchberg  young 
gentlemen,  Tom,  Noble,  and  Grandee;  and 
the  young  ladies,  Miss  Queen,  Miss  Marble, 
and  Miss  Molanna — all  exceedingly  gay  and 
pretty.  There  was  also  Colonel  Hunchberg,  an 
uncle;  finally  there  was  Aunt  Cooley  Hunch 
berg,  a  somewhat  decrepit  but  very  amiable 
old  lady.  Mr.  Corley  Linbridge  happened  to 
be  calling  at  the  same  time;  and,  as  it  ap 
peared  to  be  Beasley's  duty  to  keep  the  con 
versation  going  and  constantly  to  include  all  of 
the  party  in  its  general  flow,  it  struck  me  that 
he  had  truly  (as  Dowden  said)  "enough  to  keep 
him  busy." 

The  Hunchbergs  had  lately  moved  to  Wain- 
wright  from  Constantinople,  I  learned;  they 
had  decided  not  to  live  in  town,  however,  having 
purchased  a  fine  farm  out  in  the  country,  and, 
on  account  of  the  distance,  were  able  to  call  at 


Beasley's  only  about  eight  times  a  day,  and 

seldom   more    than    twice    in    the    evening. 

Whenever  a  mystic  telephone  announced  that     . , 

they  were  on  the  way,  the  child  would  have 

himself    wheeled     to     a 

window;  and  when  they 

came  in  sight  he  would 

cry  out  in  wild  delight, 

while    Beasley  hastened  - 

to  open  the   front  door 

and  admit  them. 

They  were  so  real  to 
the  child,  and  Beasley  treated 
them  with  such  consistent  seri 
ousness,  that  between  the  two  of 
them  I  sometimes  began  to  feel 
that  there  actually  were  such 
people,  and  to  have  moments 
of  half-surprise  that  I  couldn't 
see  them;  particularly  as  each 
of  the  Hunchberg's  developed 
a  character  entirely  his  own 
to  the  last  peculiarity,  such  as  the  aged  Aunt 
Cooley  Hunchberg's  deafness,  on  which  ac 
count  Beasley  never  once  forgot  to  raise  his 

65 


voice  when  he  addressed  her.  Indeed,  the  details 
of  actuality  in  all  this  appeared  to  bring  as  great 
a  delight  to  the  man  as  to  the  child.  Certainly  he 
built  them  up  with  infinite  care.  On  one  occa 
sion  when  Mr.  Hunchberg  and  I  happened  to  be 
calling,  Hamilton  remarked  with  surprise  that 
Simpledoria  had  come  into  the  room  without 
licking  his  hand  as  he  usually  did,  and  had  crept 
under  the  table.  Mr.  Hunchberg  volunteered  the 
information  (through  Beasley)  that  upon  his  ap 
proach  to  the  house  he  had  seen  Simpledoria  chas 
ing  a  cat.  It  was  then  debated  whether  chastise 
ment  was  in  order,  but  finally  decided  that  Sim- 
pledoria's  surreptitious  manner  of  entrance  and 
his  hiding  under  the  table  were  sufficient  indi 
cation  that  he  well  understood  his  baseness,  and 
would  never  let  it  happen  again.  And  so,  Beas 
ley  having  coaxed  him  out  from  under  the  table, 
the  offender  "sat  up,"  begged,  and  was  forgiven. 
I  could  almost  feel  the  splendid  shaggy 
head  under  my  hand  when,  in  turn,  I 
patted  Simpledoria  to 
show  that  the  rec 
onciliation  was 


unanimous. 


VI 


ATTUMN  trailed  the  last  leaves  behind  her 
flying  brown  robes  one  night;  we  woke  to 
a  skurry  of  snow  next  morning;  and  it  was 
winter.  Down-town,  along  the  sidewalks,  the 
merchants  set  lines  of  poles,  covered  them  with 
evergreen,  and  ran  streamers  of  green  overhead 
to  encourage  the  festal  shopping.  Salvation 
Army  Santa  Clauses  stamped  their  feet  and  rang 
bells  on  the  corners,  and  pink-faced  children 
fixed  their  noses  immovably  to  display-windows. 
For  them,  the  season  of  seasons,  the  time  of 
times,  was  at  hand. 

To  a  certain  new  reporter  on  the  "  Despatch  " 
the  stir  and  gayety  of  the  streets  meant  little 
more  than  that  the  days  had  come  when  it  was 
night  in  the  afternoon,  and  that  he  was  given 
fewer  political  assignments.  This  was  annoy 
ing,  because  Beasley's  candidacy  for  the  gov- 


ernorship  had  given  me  a  personal  interest  in 
the  political  situation.  The  nominating  conven 
tion  of  his  party  would  meet  in  the  spring;  the 
nomination  was  certain  to  carry  the  election 
also,  and  thus  far  Beasley  showed  more  strength 
than  any  other  man  in  the  field.  "Things  are 
looking  his  way,"  said  Dowden.  "He's  always 
worked  hard  for  the  party;  not  on  the  stump,  of 
course,"  he  laughed;  "but  the  boys  understand 
there  are  more  important  things  than  speech- 
making.  His  record  in  Congress  gave  him  the 
confidence  of  everybody  in  the  state,  and,  be 
sides  that,  people  always  trust  a  quiet  man.  I 
tell  you  if  nothing  happens  he'll  get  it." 

"I'mfer  Beasley,"  another  politician  explain 
ed,  in  an  interview,  "because  he's  Dave  Beas 
ley!  Yes,  sir,  I'mfer  him.  You  know  the  boys 
say  if  a  man  is  only  for  you,  in  this  state,  there 
isn't  much  in  it  and  he  may  go  back  on  it;  but 
if  he's  fer  you,  he  means  it.  Well,  I'm  fer 
Beasley!" 

There  were  other  candidates,  of  course;  none 
of  them  formidable;  but  I  was  surprised  to 
learn  of  the  existence  of  a  small  but  energetic 
faction  opposing  our  friend  in  Wainwright,  his 

68 


own  town.  ("What  are  you  surprised  about?" 
inquired  Dowden.  "  Don't  you  know  what  our 
folks  are  like,  yet?  If  St.  Paul  lived  in  Wain- 
wright,  do  you  suppose  he  could  run  for  con 
stable  without  some  of  his  near  neighbors  getting 
out  to  try  and  down  him  ?") 

The  head  and  front  (and  backbone,  too)  of 
the  opposition  to  Beasley  was  a  close-fisted, 
hard-knuckled,  risen-from-the-soil  sort  of  man, 
one  named  Simeon  Peck.  He  possessed  no  in 
considerable  influence,  I  heard;  was  a  hard 
worker,  and  vigorously  seconded  by  an  energetic 
lieutenant,  a  young  man  named  Grist.  These, 
and  others  they  had  been  able  to  draw  to  their 
faction,  were  bitterly  and  eagerly  opposed  to 
Beasley's  nomination,  and  worked  without  ceas 
ing  to  prevent  it. 

I  quote  the  invaluable  Mr.  Dowden  again: 
"Grist's  against  us  because  he  had  a  quarrel 
with  a  clerk  in  Beasley's  office,  and  wanted 
Beasley  to  discharge  him,  and  Beasley  wouldn't; 
Sim  Peck's  against  us  out  of  just  plain  wrong- 
headedness,  and  because  he  never  was  for  any 
thing  nor  fer  anybody  in  his  life.  I  had  a  talk 
with  the  old  mutton-head  the  other  day;  he  said 


our  candidate  ought  to  be  a  farmer,  a  'man  of 
the  common  people/  and  when  I  asked  him 
where  he'd  find  anybody  more  a  'man  of  the 
common  people'  than  Beasley,  he  said  Beasley 
was  'too  much  of  a  society  man'  to  suit  him! 
The  idea  of  Dave  as  a  'society  man'  was  too 
much  for  me,  and  I  laughed  in  Sim  Peck's  face, 
but  that  didn't  stop  Sim  Peck !  '  Jest  look  at  the 
style  he  lives  in,'  he  yelped.  'Ain't  he  fairly 
lapped  in  luxury  ?  Look  at  that  big  house  he 
lives  in!  Look  at  the  way  he  goes  around  in 
that  phaeton  of  his — and  a  nigger  to  drive  him 
half  the  time!'  I  had  to  holler  again,  and,  of 
course,  that  made  Sim  twice  as  mad  as  he 
started  out  to  be;  and  he  went  off  swearing  he'd 
show  me,  before  the  campaign  was  over.  The 
only  trouble  he  and  Grist  and  that  crowd  could 
give  us  would  be  by  finding  out  something 
against  Dave,  and  they  can't  do  that  because 
there  isn't  anything  to  find  out." 

I  shared  his  confidence  on  this  latter  score, 
but  was  somewhat  less  sanguine  on  some  others. 
There  were  only  two  newspapers  of  any  political 
influence  in  Wainwright,  the  "  Despatch  "  and 
the  "  Journal,"  both  operated  in  the  interest  of 

70 


Beasley's  party,  and  neither  had  "come  out"  for 
him.  The  gossip  I  heard  about  our  office  led 
me  to  think  that  each  was  waiting  to  see  what 
headway  Sim  Peck  and  his  faction  would  make; 
the  "Journal"  especially,  I  knew,  had  some 
inclination  to  coquette  with  Peck,  Grist,  and 
Company.  Altogether,  their  faction  was  not  en 
tirely  to  be  despised. 

Thus,  my  thoughts  were  a  great  deal  more 
occupied  with  Beasley's  chances  than  with  the 
holiday  spirit  that  now,  with  furs  and  bells  and 
wreathing  mists  of  snow,  breathed  good  cheer 
over  the  town.  So  little,  indeed,  had  this  spirit 
touched  me  that,  one  evening  when  one  of 
my  colleagues,  standing  before  the  grate-fire 
in  the  reporters'  room,  yawned  and  said 
he'd  be  glad  when  to  -  morrow  was  over,  I 
asked  him  what  was  the  particular  trouble 
with  to-morrow. 

"Christmas,"  he  explained,  languidly.  "Al 
ways  so  tedious.  Like  Sunday." 

"It  makes  me  homesick,"  said  another,  a 
melancholy  little  man  who  was  forever  bragging 
of  his  native  Duluth. 

"Christmas,"  I  repeated — "to-morrow!" 


It  was  Christmas  Eve,  and  I  had  not  known 
it!  I  leaned  back  in  my  chair  in  sudden  lone 
liness,  what  pictures  coming  before  me  of  long- 
ago  Christmas  Eves  at  home! — old  Christmas 
Eves  when  there  was  a  Tree.  .  .  . 

My  name  was  called;  the  night  City  Editor 
had  an  assignment  for  me.  "Go  up  to  Sim 
Peck's,  on  Madison  Street,"  he  said.  "He 
thinks  he's  got  something  on  David  Beasley, 
but  won't  say  any  more  over  the  telephone. 
See  what  there  is  in  it." 

I  picked  up  my  hat  and  coat,  and  left  the 
office  at  a  speed  which  must  have  given  my 
superior  the  highest  conception  of  my  journalis 
tic  zeal.  At  a  telephone  station  on  the  next  cor 
ner  I  called  up  Mrs.  Apperthwaite's  house  and 
asked  for  Dowden. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  I  demanded,  when 
his  voice  had  responded. 

"Playing  bridge,"  he  answered. 

"Are  you  going  out  anywhere  ?" 

"No.     What's   the   trouble?" 

"I'll  tell  you  later.  I  may  want  to  see  you 
before  I  go  back  to  the  office." 

"All  right.     I'll  be  here  all  evening." 
72 


I  hung  up  the  receiver  and  made  off  on  my 
errand. 

Down-town  the  streets  were  crowded  with 
the  package-laden  people,  bending  heads  and 
shoulders  to  the  bitter  wind,  which  swept  a 
blinding,  sleet-like  snow  horizontally  against 
them.  At  corners  it  struck  so  tumultuous  a 
blow  upon  the  chest  of  the  pedestrians  that 
for  a  moment  it  would  halt  them,  and  you 
could  hear  them  gasping  half- smothered 
" Ahs"  like  bathers  in  a  heavy  surf.  Yet 
there  was  a  gayety  in  this  eager  gale;  the 
crowds  pressed  anxiously,  yet  happily,  up  and 
down  the  street  in  their  generous  search  for 
things  to  give  away.  It  was  not 
the  rich  who  struggled  through 
the  storm  to-night;  these  were 


people  who  carried  their  own  bundles  home. 
You  saw  them:  toilers  and  savers,  tired  mothers 
and  fathers,  worn  with  the  grinding  thrift  of  all 
the  year,  but  now  for  this  one  night  careless  of 
how  hard-saved  the  money,  reckless  of  every 
thing  but  the  joy  of  giving  it  to  bring  the  chil 
dren  joy  on  the  one  great  to-morrow.  So  they 
bent  their  heads  to  the  freezing  wind,  their  arms 
laden  with  daring  bundles  and  their  hearts 
uplifted  with  the  tremulous  happiness  of  giving 
more  than  they  could  afford.  Meanwhile,  Mr. 
Simeon  Peck,  honest  man,  had  chosen  this  sea 
son  to  work  harm  if  he  might  to  the  gentlest  of 
his  fellow-men. 

I  found  Mr.  Peck  waiting  for  me  at  his  house. 
There  were  four  other  men  with  him,  one  of 
whom  I  recognized  as  Grist,  a  squat  young  man 
with  slippery-looking  black  hair  and  a  lam 
brequin  mustache.  They  were  donning  their 
coats  and  hats  in  the  hall  when  I  arrived. 

"From  the  '  Despatch/  hay  ?"  Mr.  Peck  gave 
me  greeting,  as  he  wound  a  knit  comforter 
about  his  neck.  "That's  good.  We'd  most 
give  you  up.  This  here's  Mr.  Grist,  and  Mr. 

74 


Henry  P.  Cullop,  and  Mr.  Gus  Schulmeyer — 
three  men  that  feel  the  same  way  about  Dave 
Beasley  that  I  do.  That  other  young  feller," 
he  waved  a  mittened  hand  to  the  fourth  man 
— "he's  from  the  *  Journal/  Likely  you're  ac 
quainted." 

The  young  man  from  the  '  Journal '  was  un 
known  to  me;  moreover,  I  was  far  from  over 
joyed  at  his  presence. 

"I've  got  you  newspaper  men  here,''  con 
tinued  Mr.  Peck,  "because  I'm  goin'  to  show 
you  somep'n'  about  Dave  Beasley  that  '11  open 
a  good  many  folk's  eyes  when  it's  in  print." 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  I  asked,  rather  sharply. 

"Jest  hold  your  horses  a  little  bit,"  he  re 
torted.  "Grist  and  me  knows,  and  so  do  Mr. 
Cullop  and  Mr.  Schulmeyer.  And  I'm  goin'  to 
take  them  and  you  two  reporters  to  look  at  it. 
All  ready  ?  Then  come  on." 

He  threw  open  the  door,  stooped  to  the  gust 
that  took  him  by  the  throat,  and  led  the  way 
out  into  the  storm. 

"What  is  he  up  to  ?"  I  gasped  to  the  "  Jour 
nal  "  man  as  we  followed  in  a  straggling  line. 

"I  don't  know  any  more  than  you  do,"  he 

75 


returned.  "  He  thinks  he's  got  something  that  '11 
queer  Beasley.  Peck's  an  old  fool,  but  it's  just 
possible  he's  got  hold  of  something.  Nearly 
everybody  has  one  thing,  at  least,  that  they 
don't  want  found  out.  It  may  be  a  good 
story.  Lord,  what  a  night!" 

I  pushed  ahead  to  the  leader's  side.  "See 
here,  Mr.  Peck — "  I  began,  but  he  cut  me 
off. 

"You  listen  to  me,  young  man!  I'm  givin' 
you  some  news  for  your  paper,  and  I'm  gittin' 
at  it  my  own  way,  but  I'll  git  at  it,  don't  you 
worry!  I'm  goin'  to  let  some  folks  around 
here  know  what  kind  of  a  feller  Dave  Beasley 
really  is;  yes,  and  I'm  goin'  to  show  George 
Dowden  he  can't  laugh  at  me!" 

"You're  going  to  show  Mr.  Dowden  ?"  I 
said.  "You  mean  you're  going  to  take  him 
on  this  expedition,  too  ?" 

"Take  him!"  Mr.  Peck  emitted  an  acrid 
bark  of  laughter.  "I  guess  he's  at  Beasley's, 
all  right." 

"No,  he  isn't;  he's  at  home — at  Mrs.  Apper- 
thwaite's — playing  cards." 

"What!" 

76 


"I  happen  to  know  that  he'll  be  there  all 
evening." 

Mr.  Peck  smote  his  palms  together.  "Grist!" 
he  called,  over  his  shoulder,  and  his  colleague 
struggled  forward.  "Listen  to  this:  even  Dow- 
den  ain't  at  Beasley's.  Ain't  the  Lord  workin' 
fer  us  to-night!" 

"Why  don't  you  take  Dowden  with  you,"  I 
urged,  "if  there's  anything  you  want  to  show 
him  ?" 

"By  George,  I  will  I"  shouted  Peck.      "I've 
got  him  where  the  hair's  short  now!" 
'  "That's  right,"  said  Grist. 

"Gentlemen" — Peck  turned  to  the  others — 
"when  we  git  to  Mrs.  Apperthwaite's,  jest  stop 
outside  along  the  fence  a  minute.  I  recken 
we'll  pick  up  a  recruit." 

Shivering,  we  took  up  our  way  again  in 
single  file,  stumbling  through  drifts  that  had 
deepened  incredibly  within  the  hour.  The  wind 
was  straight  against  us,  and  so  stingingly  sharp 
and  so  laden  with  the  driving  snow  that  when 
we  reached  Mrs.  Apperthwaite's  gate  (which  we 
approached  from  the  north,  not  passing  Beas 
ley's)  my  eyes  were  so  full  of  smarting  tears  I 

77 


could  see  only  blurred  planes  of  light  dancing 
vaguely  in  the  darkness,  instead  of  brightly  lit 
windows. 

"Now/'  said  Peck,  panting  and  turning  his 
back  to  the  wind;  "the  rest  of  you  gentlemen 
wait  out  here.  You  two  newspaper  men,  you 
come  with  me." 

He  opened  the  gate  and  went  in,  the  "  Jour 
nal  "  reporter  and  I  following — all  three  of  us 
wiping  our  half-blinded  eyes.  When  we  reached 
the  shelter  of  the  front  porch,  I  took  the  key 
from  my  pocket  and  opened  the  door. 

"I  live  here,"  I  explained  to  Mr.  Peck. 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "Jest  step  in  and  tell 
George  Dowden  that  Sim  Peck's  out  here  and 
wants  to  see  him  at  the  door  a  minute.  Be 
quick." 

I  went  into  the  library,  and  there  sat  Dowden 
contemplatively  playing  bridge  with  two  of  the 
elderly  ladies  and  Miss  Apperthwaite.  The  last- 
mentioned  person  quite  took  my  breath  away. 

In  honor  of  the  Christmas  Eve  (I  supposed) 
she  wore  an  evening  dress  of  black  lace,  and  the 
only  word  for  what  she  looked  has  suffered 
such  misuse  that  one  hesitates  over  it:  yet 

78 


that  is  what  she  was  —  regal  —  and  no  less! 
There  was  a  sort  of  splendor  about  her.  It  de 
tracted  nothing  from  this  that  her  expression 
was  a  little  sad:  something  not  uncommon  with 
her  lately;  a  certain  melancholy,  faint  but  de 
tectable,  like  breath  on  a  mirror.  I  had  at 
tributed  it  to  Jean  Valjean,  though  perhaps 
to-night  it  might  have  been  due  merely  to 
bridge. 

"What  is  it  ?"  asked  Dowden,  when,  after  an 
apology  for  disturbing  the  game,  I  had  drawn 
him  out  in  the  hall. 

I  motioned  toward  the  front  door.  "Simeon 
Peck.  He  thinks  he's  got  something  on  Mr. 
Beasley.  He's  waiting  to  see  you." 

Dowden  uttered  a  sharp,  half-coherent  ex 
clamation  and  stepped  quickly  to  the  door. 
"Peck!"  he  said,  as  he  jerked  it  open. 

"Oh,  I'm  here!"  declared  that  gentleman, 
stepping  into  view.  "I've  come  around  to  let 
you  know  that  you  couldn't  laugh  like  a  horse 
at  me  no  more,  George  Dowden!  So  you 
weren't  invited,  either." 

"Invited  ?"  said  Dowden,     "Where  ?" 

"Over  to  the  ball  your  friend  is  givin'." 

79 


"What  friend?'' 

"Dave  Beasley.  So  you  ain't  quite  good 
enough  to  dance  with  his  high-society  friends!" 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  Dowden  de 
manded,  impatiently. 

"I  reckon  you  won't  be  quite  so  strong  fer 
Beasley,"  responded  Peck,  with  a  vindictive  lit 
tle  giggle,  "when  you  find  he  can  use  you  in 
his  business,  but  when  it  comes  to  entertainin 
— oh  no,  you  ain't  quite  the  boy!" 

"I'd  appreciate  your  explaining,"  said  Dow- 
den.  "It's  kind  of  cold  standing  here." 

Peck  laughed  shrilly.  "Then  I  reckon  you 
better  git  your  hat  and  coat  and  come  along. 
Can't  do  us  no  harm,  and  might  be  an  eye- 
opener  fer  you.  Grist  and  Gus  Schulmeyer  and 
Hank  Cullop's  waitin'  out  yonder  at  the  gate. 
We  be'n  havin'  kind  of  a  consultation  at  my 
house  over  somep'n'  Grist  seen  at  Beasley's  a 
little  earlier  in  the  evening." 

"What  did  Grist  see?" 

"Hacks!     Hacks     drivin'    up    to    Beasley's 

house — a  whole  lot  of  'em.     Grist  was  down  the 

street  a  piece,  and  it  was  pretty  dark,  but  he 

could  see  the  lamps  and  hear  the  doors  slam  as 

80 


the  people  got  out.  Besides,  the  whole  place  is 
lit  up  from  cellar  to  attic.  Grist  come  on  to 
my  house  and  told  me  about  it,  and  I  begun 
usin'  the  telephone;  called  up  all  the  men  that 
count  in  the  party — found  most  of  'em  at  home, 
too.  I  ast  'em  if  they  was  invited  to  this  ball 
to-night;  and  not  a  one  of  'em  was.  They  re 
only  in  politics;  they  ain't  high  society  enough 
to  be  ast  to  Mr.  Beasley's  dancin'-parties!  But 
I  would  'a'  thought  he'd  let  you  in — anyways 
fer  the  second  table!"  Mr.  Peck  shrilled  out  his 
acrid  and  exultant  laugh  again.  "I  got  these 
fellers  from  the  newspapers,  and  all  I 
want  is  to  git  this  here  ball  in  print  to- 

morrow, 
and  see 
what  the 
boys  that 


do  the  work  at  the  primaries  have  to  say 
about  it — and  what  their  wives  '11  say  about 
the  man  that's  too  high-toned  to  have  'em 
in  his  house.  I'll  bet  Beasley  thought  he  was 
goin'  to  keep  these  doin's  quiet;  afraid  the 
farmers  might  not  believe  he's  jest  the  plain 
man  he  sets  up  to  be — afraid  that  folks  like 
you  that  ain't  invited  might  turn  against  him. 
/'//  fool  him!  We're  goin'  to  see  what  there 
is  to  see,  and  I'm  goin'  to  have  these  boys  from 
the  newspapers  write  a  full  account  of  it.  If 
you  want  to  come  along,  I  expect  it  '11  do  you  a 
power  o'  good." 

"I'll  go,"  said  Dowden,  quickly.  He  got 
his  coat  and  hat  from  a  table  in  the  hall,  and 
we  rejoined  the  huddled  and  shivering  group 
at  the  gate. 

"Got  my  recruit,  gents!"  shrilled  Peck,  slap 
ping  Dowden  boisterously  on  the  shoulders.  "I 
reckon  he'll  git  a  change  of  heart  to-night!" 

And  now,  sheltering  my  eyes  from  the  sting 
ing  wind,  I  saw  what  I  had  been  too  blind  to  see 
as  we  approached  Mrs.  Apperthwaite's.  Beas- 
ley's  house  was  illuminated;  every  window,  up 
stairs  and  down,  was  aglow  with  rosy  light. 
82 


That  was  luminously  evident,  although  the 
shades  were  lowered. 

"Look  at  that!"  Peck  turned  to  Dowden, 
giggling  triumphantly.  "Wha'd  I  tell  you! 
How  do  you  feel  about  it  now  ?" 

"  But  where  are  the  hacks  ?"  asked  Dowden, 
gravely. 

"Folks  all  come,"  answered  Mr.  Peck,  with 
complete  assurance.  "Won't  be  no  more 
hacks  till  they  begin  to  go  home." 

We  plunged  ahead  as  far  as  the  corner  of 
Beasley's  fence,  where  Peck  stopped  us  again, 
and  we  drew  together,  slapping  our  hands  and 
stamping  our  feet.  Peck  was  delighted  —  a 
thoroughly  happy  man;  his  sour  giggle  of 
exultation  had  become  continuous,  and  the 
same  jovial  break  was  audible  in  Grist's  voice 
as  he  said  to  the  "Journal"  reporter  and  me: 

"Go  ahead,  boys.  Git  your  story.  We'll 
wait  here  fer  you." 

The  "  Journal "  reporter  started  toward  the 
gate;  he  had  gone,  perhaps,  twenty  feet  when 
Simeon  Peck  whistled  in  sharp  warning.  The 
reporter  stopped  short  in  his  tracks. 

Beasley's  front  door  was  thrown  open,  and 

83 


there  stood    Beasley 
himself    in    evening 
dress,  bowing    and 
smiling,  but  not  at 
us,  for  he  did  not 
see  us.     The  bright 
hall   behind   him   was 
beautiful  with  evergreen 
streamers    and    wreaths, 
and  great  flowering  plants 
in    jars.      A    strain    of 
dance -music  wandered 
out  to  us  as  the    door  opened, 
but    there    was     nobody    except 
David  Beasley  in  sight,  which  cer 
tainly  seemed   peculiar — for  a 
ball! 

"Rest  of  'em  inside,  dan- 
cm',"  explained  Mr.  Peck,  crouching  behind 
the  picket-fence.  "I'll  bet  the  house  is  more'n 
half  full  o'  low-necked  wimmin!" 

"Sh!"  said  Grist.     "Listen." 

Beasley  had  begun  to  speak,  and  his  voice, 
loud  and  clear,  sounded  over  the  wind.  "Come 
right  in,  Colonel!"  he  said.  "I'd  have  sent  a 


carnage  for  you  if  you  hadn't  telephoned  me 
this  afternoon  that  your  rheumatism  was  so 
bad  you  didn't  expect  to  be  able  to  come.  I'm 
glad  you're  well  again.  Yes,  they're  all  here, 
and  the  ladies  are  getting  up  a  quadrille  in  the 
sitting-room." 

(It  was  at  this  moment  that  I  received  upon 
the  calf  of  the  right  leg  a  kick,  the  ecstatic  vio 
lence  of  which  led  me  to  attribute  it  to  Mr. 
Dowden.) 

"Gentlemen's  dressing-room  up-stairs  to  the 
right,  Colonel,"  called  Beasley,  as  he  closed  the 
door. 

There  was  a  pause  of  awed  silence  among  us. 

(I  improved  it  by  returning  the  kick  to  Mr. 
Dowden.  He  made  no  acknowledgment  of  its 
reception  other  than  to  sink  his  chin  a  little 
deeper  into  the  collar  of  his  ulster.) 

"  By  the  Almighty!"  said  Simeon  Peck,  hoarse 
ly.  "Who — what  was  Dave  Beasley  talkin'  to? 
There  wasn't  nobody  there!" 

"Git  out,"  Grist  bade  him;  but  his  tone  was 
perturbed.  "He  seen  that  reporter.  He  was 
givin'  us  the  laugh." 

"He's  crazy!"  exclaimed  Peck,  vehemently. 

85 


Immediately  all  four  members  of  his  party 
began  to  talk  at  the  same  time:  Mr.  Schul- 
meyer  agreeing  with  Grist,  and  Mr.  Cullop 
holding  with  Peck  that  Beasley  had  surely  be 
come  insane;  while  the  "  Journal "  man,  return 
ing,  was  certain  that  he  had  not  been  seen. 
Argument  became  a  wrangle;  excitement  over 
the  remarkable  scene  we  had  witnessed,  and, 
perhaps,  a  certain  sharpness  partially  engen 
dered  by  the  risk  of  freezing,  led  to  some  bit 
terness.  High  words  were  flung  upon  the  wind. 
Eventually,  Simeon  Peck  got  the  floor  to  him 
self  for  a  moment. 

"See  here,  boys,  there's  no  use  gittin'  mad 
amongs'  ourselves,"  he  vociferated.  "One 
thing  we're  all  agreed  on:  nobody  here  never 
seen  no  such  a  dam  peculiar  performance  as 
we  jest  seen  in  their  whole  lives  before.  Thur- 
fore,  ball  or  no  ball,  there's  somep'n'  mighty 
wrong  about  this  business.  Ain't  that  so  ?" 

They  said  it  was. 

"Well,  then,  there's  only  one  thing  to  do — 
let's  find  out  what  it  is." 

"You  bet  we  will." 

"I  wouldn't  send  no  one  in  there  alone," 
86 


Peck  went 
on,  excited 
ly,  "with  a 
crazy  man. 
Besides,  I  want 
to  see  what's 
goin'  on,  my- 

self."-"  So  do 
we!"  This  was 
unanimous. 
"Then  let's 

"^••r 

see  if  there  ain't  some  way 
to  do    it.      Perhaps    he    ain't   pulled 
all  the   shades    down   on   the   other   side   the 
house.     Lots  o'  people  fergit  to  do  that." 

There  was  but  one  mind  in  the  party  regard 
ing  this  proposal.  The  next  minute  saw  us  all 
cautiously  sneaking  into  the  side  yard,  a  ragged 
line  of  bent  and  flapping  figures,  black  against 
the  snow. 

Simeon  Peck's  expectations  were  fulfilled — 
more  than  fulfilled.  Not  only  were  all  the  shades 
of  the  big,  three-faced  bay-window  of  the  "sit 
ting-room"  lifted,  but  (evidently  on  account  of 
the  too  great  generosity  of  a  huge  log-fire  that 

87 


blazed  in  the 
old  -  fashioned 
chimney- 
place)  one  of 
the  windows  was 
half  -  raised  as 
well.  Here,  in 
the  shadow  just 
beyond  the  rosy 
oblongs  of  light 
that  fell  upon 
the  snow,  we 
gathered  and 
looked  freely  within. 
Part  of  the  room  was  clear  to  our  view,  though 
about  half  of  it  was  shut  off  from  us  by  the 
very  king  of  all  Christmas-trees,  glittering  with 
dozens  and  dozens  of  candles,  sumptuous  in 
silver,  sparkling  in  gold,  and  laden  with  Heaven 
alone  knows  how  many  and  what  delectable 
enticements.  Opposite  the  Tree,  his  back 
against  the  wall,  sat  old  Bob,  clad  in  a  dress  of 
state,  part  of  which  consisted  of  a  swallow-tail 
coat  (with  an  overgrown  chrysanthemum  in 
the  buttonhole),  a  red  necktie,  and  a  pink-and- 

88 


silver  liberty  cap  of  tissue-paper.  He  was 
scraping  a  fiddle  "like  old  times  come  again," 
and  the  tune  he  played  was,  "Oh,  my  Liza, 
po'  gal!"  My  feet  shuffled  to  it  in  the  snow. 

No  one  except  old  Bob  was  to  be  seen  in  the 
room,  but  we  watched  him  and  listened  breath 
lessly.  When  he  finished  "Liza,"  he  laid  the 
fiddle  across  his  knee,  wiped  his  face  with  a 
new  and  brilliant  blue  silk  handkerchief,  and 
said: 

"Now  come   de  big  speech." 

The  Honorable  David  Beasley,  carrying  a 
small  mahogany  table,  stepped  out  from  be 
yond  the  Christmas-tree,  advanced  to  the 
centre  of  the  room;  set  the  table  down;  dis 
appeared  for  a  moment  and  returned  with  a 
white  water-pitcher  and  a  glass.  He  placed 
these  upon  the  table,  bowed  gracefully  several 
times,  then  spoke: 

"Ladies  and  gentleman — "    There  he  paused. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Simeon  Peck,  slowly, 
"don't  this  beat  hell!" 

"Look  out!"  The  "Journal"  reporter 
twitched  his  sleeve.  "Ladies  present." 

"Where?"  said  I. 

89 


He  leaned  nearer  me  and  spoke  in  a  low  tone. 
"Just  behind  us.  She  followed  us  over  from 
your  boarding  -  house.  She's  been  standing 
around  near  us  all  along.  I  supposed  she  was 
Dowden's  daughter,  probably." 

"He  hasn't  any  daughter,"  I  said,  and  stepped 
back  to  the  hooded  figure  I  had  been  too  ab 
sorbed  in  our  quest  to  notice. 

It  was  Miss  Apperthwaite. 

She  had  thrown  a  loose  cloak  over  her  head 
and  shoulders;  but  enveloped  in  it  as  she  was, 
and  crested  and  epauletted  with  white,  I  knew 
her  at  once.  There  was  no  mistaking  her,  even 
in  a  blizzard. 

She  caught  my  hand  with  a  strong,  quick 
pressure,  and,  bending  her  head  to  mine,  said, 
close  to  my  ear: 

"I  heard  everything  that  man  said  in  our 
hallway.  You  left  the  library  door  open  when 
you  called  Mr.  Dowden  out." 

"So,"  I  returned,  maliciously,  "you — you 
couldn't  help  following!" 

She  released  my  hand — gently,  to  my  surprise. 

"Hush,"  she  whispered.  "He's  saying  some 
thing." 

90 


"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  Beasley  again 
— and  stopped  again. 

Dowden's  voice  sounded  hysterically  in  my 
right  ear.  (Miss  Apperthwaite  had  whispered 
in  my  left.)  "The  only  speech  he's  ever  made 
in  his  life — and  he's  stuck!" 

But  Beasley  wasn't:  he  was  only  deliberating. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  began — "Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Hunchberg,  Colonel  Hunchberg  and 
Aunt  Cooley  Hunchberg,  Miss  Molanna,  Miss 
Queen,  and  Miss  Marble  Hunchberg,  Mr. 
Noble,  Mr.  Tom,  and  Mr.  Grandee  Hunchberg, 
Mr.  Corley  Linbridge,  and 
Master  Hammersley: — You 
see  before  you  to-night,  in 
my  person,  merely  the  rep 
resentative  of  your 
real  host,  Mister 
Swift.  Mister  Swift 
has  expressed  a  wish  that 
there  should  be  a  speech, 
and  has  deputed  me  to 
make  it.  He  requests 
that  the  subject  he  has 
assigned  me  should  be 


treated  in  as  dignified  a  manner  as  is  possible 
— considering  the   orator.     Ladies   and   gentle 
men" — he   took  a  sip   of  water — "1  will   now 
address  you  upon  the  following  subject:  'Why 
we  Call  Christmas-time  the  Best  Time/ 

"Christmas-time  is  the  best  time  because  it  is 
the  kindest  time.  Nobody  ever  felt  very  happy 
without  feeling  very  kind,  and  nobody  ever  felt 
very  kind  without  feeling  at  least  a  little  happy. 
So,  of  course,  either  way  about,  the  happiest 
time  is  the  kindest  time — that's  this  time.  The 
most  beautiful  things  our  eyes  can  see  are  the 
stars;  and  for  that  reason,  and  in  remembrance 
of  One  star,  we  set  candles  on  the  Tree  to  be 
stars  in  the  house.  So  we  make  Christmas-time 
a  time  of  stars  indoors;  and  they  shine  warmly 
against  the  cold  outdoors  that  is  like  the  cold  of 
other  seasons  not  so  kind.  We  set  our  hundred 
candles  on  the  Tree  and  keep  them  bright 
throughout  the  Christmas-time,  for  while  they 
shine  upon  us  we  have  light  to  see  this  life, 
not  as  a  battle,  but  as  the  march  of  a  mighty 
Fellowship!  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  thank 
you!" 

He  bowed  to  right  and  left,  as  to  an  audience 
92 


politely  applauding,  and,  lifting  the  table  and 
its  burden,  withdrew;  while  old  Bob  again  set 
his  fiddle  to  his  chin  and  scraped  the  preliminary 
measures  of  a  quadrille. 

Beasley  was  back  in  an  instant,  shouting  as 
he  came:  "Take  your  pardners!  Balance  all!" 

And  then  and  there,  and  all  by  himself,  he 
danced  a  quadrille,  performing  at  one  and  the 
same  time  for  four  lively  couples.  Never  in  my 
life  have  I  seen  such  gyrations  and  capers  as 
were  cut  by  that  long-legged,  loose-jointed,  mi 
raculously  flying  figure.  He  was  in  the  wildest 
motion  without  cessation,  never  the  fraction  of 
an  instant  still;  calling  the  figures  at  the  top 
of  his  voice  and  dancing  them  simultaneously; 
his  expression  anxious  but  polite  (as  is  the 
habit  of  other  dancers);  his  hands  extended  as 
if  to  swing  his  partner  or  corner,  or  "opposite 
lady";  and  his  feet  lifting  high  and  flapping 
down  in  an  old-fashioned  step. 

"First  four,  forward  and  back!"  he  shouted. 
"  Forward  and  salute  !  Balance  to  corners  ! 
Swing  pardners!  Gr-r-rand  Right-and-Left!" 

I  think  the  combination  of  abandon  and  de 
corum  with  which  he  performed  that  "  Grand 

93 


Right- and- Left"  was  the  funniest  thing  I  have 
ever  seen.  But  I  didn't  laugh  at  it. 

Neither  did  Miss  Apperthwaite. 

" Now  do  you  believe  me  ?"  Peck  was  arguing, 
fiercely,  with  Mr.  Schulmeyer.  "Is  he  crazy, 
or  ain't  he  ?" 

"He  is,"  Grist  agreed,  hoarsely.  "He  is  a 
stark,  starin',  ravin',  roarin'  lunatic!  And  the 
nigger's  humorin'  him!" 

They  were  all  staring,  open-mouthed  and 
aghast,  into  the  lighted  room. 

"Do  you  see  where  it  puts  us  ?"  Simeon 
Peck's  rasping  voice  rose  high. 

"I  guess  I  do!"  said  Grist.  "We  come  out 
to  buy  a  barn,  and  got  a  house  and  lot  fer  the 
same  money.  It's  the  greatest  night's  work 
you  ever  done,  Sim  Peck!" 

"I  guess  it  is!" 

"Shake  on  it,  Sim." 

They  shook  hands,  exalted  with  triumph. 

"This  '11  do  the  work,"  giggled  Peck.  "It's 
about  two-thousand  per  cent,  better  than  the 
story  we  started  to  git.  Why,  Dave  Beasley  '11 
be  in  a  padded  cell  in  a  month!  It'll  be  all 
over  town  to-morrow,  and  he'll  have  as  much 

94 


chance  fer  governor  as  that  nigger  in  there!" 
In  his  ecstasy  he  smote  Dowden  deliriously  in 
the  ribs.  "What  do  you  think  of  your  candi 
date  now?" 

"Wait,"  said  Dowden.  "Who  came  in  the 
hacks  that  Grist  saw  ?" 

This  staggered  Mr.  Peck.  He  rubbed  his 
mitten  over  his  woollen  cap  as  if  scratching 
his  head.  "Why,"  he  said,  slowly — "who  in 
Halifax  did  come  in  them  hacks  ?" 

"The  Hunchbergs,"  said  I. 

"Who's  the  Hunchbergs?     Where—" 

"Listen,"  said  Dowden. 

"First  couple,  face  out!"  shouted  Beasley, 
facing  out  with  an  invisible  lady  on  his  akim- 
boed  arm,  while  old  Bob  sawed  madly  at  A 
New  Coon  in  Town. 

"Second  couple,  fall  in!"  Beasley  wheeled 
about  and  enacted  the  second  couple. 

"Third  couple!"  He  fell  in  behind  himself 
again. 

"Fourth  couple,  //  you  please!  Balance — 
ALL! — I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Molanna, 
I'm  afraid  I  stepped  on  your  train. — Sashay 

Aiir 

95 


After  the  "sashay" — the  noblest  and  most 
dashing  bit  of  gymnastics  displayed  in  the 
whole  quadrille — he  bowed  profoundly  to  his 
invisible  partner  and  came  to  a  pause,  wip 
ing  his  streaming  face.  Old  Bob  dexterously 
swung  a  A  New  Coon  into  the  stately  meas 
ures  of  a  triumphal  march. 

"And  now,"  Beasley  announced,  in  stento 
rian  tones,  "if  the  ladies  will  be  so  kind  as  to 
take  the  gentlemen's  arms,  we  will  proceed  to  the 
dining-room  and  partake  of  a  slight  collation." 

Thereupon  came  a  slender  piping  of  joy 
from  that  part  of  the  room  screened  from  us 
by  the  Tree. 

"Oh,  Cousin  David  Beasley,  that  was  the 
beautifullest  quadrille  ever  danced  in  the  world! 
And,  please,  won't  you  take  Mrs.  Hunchberg 
out  to  supper  ?" 

Then  into  the  vision  of  our  paralyzed  and 
dumfounded  watchers  came  the  little  wagon, 
pulled  by  the  old  colored  woman,  Bob's  wife, 
in  her  best,  and  there,  propped  upon  pillows, 
lay  Hamilton  Swift,  Junior,  his  soul  shining 
rapture  out  of  his  great  eyes,  a  bright  spot  of 
color  on  each  of  his  thin  cheeks. 


He  lifted  himself  on  one  elbow,  and  for  an 
instant  something  seemed  to  be  wrong  with  the 
brace  under  his  chin. 

Beasley  sprang  to  him  and  adjusted  it  ten 
derly.  Then  he  bowed  elaborately  toward  the 
mantel-piece. 

"Mrs.  Hunchberg,"  he  said,  "may  I  have 
the  honor?"  And  offered  his  arm. 

"And  I  must  have  Mister  Hunchberg," 
chirped  Hamilton.  "He  must  walk  with  me." 

"He  tells  me"  said  Beasley,  "he'll  be  mighty 
glad  to.  And  there's  a  plate  of  bones  for  Sim- 
pledoria." 

the 
the 

child;    "you    and 
Mrs.  Hunchberg." 

"Are  we  all  in 
line?"     Beasley 
glanced  back  over 
his     shoulder. 
"/^oo-ray!     Now 
let    us   on. 
there!" 


:'You  lead 

way,"     cried 

(( 


Ho  ! 


applauded  Mister  Swift. 
97 


And  Beasley,  his  head  thrown  back  and  his 
chest  out,  proudly  led  the  way,  stepping  nobly 
and  in  time  to  the  exhilarating  measures.  Ham 
ilton  Swift,  Junior,  towed  by  the  beaming  old 
mammy,  followed  in  his  wagon,  his  thin  little 
arm  uplifted  and  his  fingers  curled  as  if  they 
held  a  trusted  hand. 

When  they  reached  the  door,  old  Bob 
rose,  turned  in  after  them,  and,  still  fiddling, 
played  the  procession  and  himself  down  the 
hall. 

And  so  they  marched  away,  and  we  were  left 
staring  into  the  empty  room.  .  .  . 

"My  soul!"  said  the  "Journal"  reporter,  gasp 
ing.  "And  he  did  all  that — just  to  please  a 
little  sick  kid!" 

"I  can't  figure  it  out,"  murmured  Sim  Peck, 
piteously. 

"/  can,"  said  the  "Journal  "  reporter.  "This 
story  will  be  all  over  town  to-morrow."  He 
glanced  at  me,  and  I  nodded.  "It  '11  be  all  over 
town,"  he  continued,  "though  not  in  any  of  the 
papers — and  I  don't  believe  it's  going  to  hurt 
Dave  Beasley's  chances  any." 


Mr.  Peck  and  his  companions  turned  toward 
the  street;  they  went  silently. 

The  young  man  from  the  "Journal  "  overtook 
them.  "Thank  you  for  sending  for  me,"  he 
said,  cordially.  "  You've  given  me  a  treat. 
I'm  fer  Beasley!" 

Dowden  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder.  He 
had  not  observed  the  third  figure  still  remaining. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  remarked,  shaking  the  snow 
from  his  coat,  "they  were  right  about  one 
thing:  it  certainly  was  mighty  low  down  of 
Dave  not  to  invite  me — and  you,  too — to  his 
Christmas  party.  Let  him  go  to  thunder  with 
his  old  invitations,  I'm  going  in,  anyway!  Come 
on.  I'm  plum  froze." 

There  was  a  side  door  just  beyond  the  bay- 
window,  and  Dowden  went  to  it  and  rang,  loud 
and  long.  It  was  Beasley  himself  who  open 
ed  it. 

"What  in  the  name — "  he  began,  as  the  ruddy 
light  fell  upon  Dowden's  face  and  upon  me, 
standing  a  little  way  behind.  "What  are  you 
two — snow-banks  ?  What  on  earth  are  you  fel 
lows  doing  out  here  ?" 

99 


"We've  come  to  your  Christmas  party,  you 
old  horse-thief!"  Thus  Mr.  Dowden. 

"//oo-ray!"  said  Beasley. 

Dowden  turned  to  me.    "Aren't  you  coming  ?" 

"What  are  you  waiting  for,  old  fellow?"  said 
Beasley. 

I  waited  a  moment  longer,  and  then  it  hap 
pened. 

She  came  out  of  the  shadow  and  went  to  the 
foot  of  the  steps,  her  cloak  falling  from  her 
shoulders  as  she  passed  me.  I  picked  it  up. 

She  lifted  her  arms  pleadingly,  though  her 
head  was  bent  with  what  seemed  to  me  a  beau 
tiful  sort  of  shame.  She  stood  there  with  the 
snow  driving  against  her  and  did  not  speak. 
Beasley  drew  his  hand  slowly  across  his  eyes — 
to  see  if  they  were  really  there,  I  think. 

"David,"  she  said,  at  last.  "You've  got  so 
many  lovely  people  in  your  house  to-night: 
isn't  there  room  for — for  just  one  fool  ?  It's 
Christmas-time!" 


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